FIC: Hold and Lean
Title: Hold and Lean
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: some self-harm
Genre: Gen
Word Count: around 3,000
Spoilers: Set sometime after 7x10.
Summary: Dean gets hit with an insomnia curse, and Sam can’t do anything but watch.
Notes: Written for this prompt for the hoodie_time challenge. So much love to jaimeykay for all of her help. You’re kind of unbelievable. ♥ I hope you like it, may!
The sad thing is, they're not even on a hunt. Not one they were aware of, anyway.
(When the curse hits, Dean doesn’t even flinch.)
At first, he casts down his eyes and rolls his shoulders. His lips are slightly parted, huffing out small breaths; his eyebrows furrow in thought.
"Uh," he says.
Sam whirls around, scanning the area, but whoever it was that whispered the spell is gone. "What the hell?" he says, then turns back around. "What - do you feel - how do you feel?"
Dean rubs at his chest. "Nothing bad, I guess," he says. "Just - weird."
Sam remembers enough of the curse to look it up, and it doesn't take long to find that it's an insomnia curse. He frowns and pushes back in his chair.
"What the fuck," Dean says without heat, and Sam's wondering the same thing. "We've been in town two hours and I get reverse Rip Van Winkle-d?"
Sam shakes his head. "I dunno, man. Look, let's hole up here. Track him down; he shouldn't be hard to find once we start asking around. You can't be the first person he's done this to."
To Sam's surprise, Dean shrugs. “Not a big deal. Just blessed with more hours in the day, Sammy.” He grins, all teeth, and clamped down so hard his jaw must be aching. “Dude did us a favor is all.”
“It’s not a favor,” Sam manages, dumbfounded as he follows Dean out of their room and to the car. “You won’t be able to sleep. For a week. Do you know what sleep deprivation does to someone?”
“I’m always tired,” Dean says, the matter of fact tone painful. He blinks, looking a little surprised, like he didn’t mean for that to slip out.
Not like it’s some big secret.
Dean drives them to the local steakhouse down the block (Man's gotta keep up his strength, Sammy), where he orders their biggest sirloin and a double of Crown, please. “Can’t do anything for me, anyway. Just gotta ride it out.”
Business as usual, but Sam hides his frown; Dean's never been one to blow off a case.
(He's not killing anyone, anyway. Yeah, it sucks, but - we've got bigger fish to fry.
Are you serious? Really? You want to let this one go?
Dean lifts a shoulder. Maybe after - after. We can come back. Figure this out.)
Sam cuts his chicken into little pieces and drags them through the alfredo. He’s not sure why this is hitting him so hard, but why do things keep seeking them out, what is it about them that screams vulnerability? Hell, they’ve been keeping their heads down, kept off the grid, said their please and thank yous, avoided eye contact, smiled when they needed to.
Across the table, Dean sheds his napkin on the table, fingers shaking slightly, mouth tight. He tenses whenever someone walks by their table, flinches when the booth shakes when the frat boys behind them laugh.
It’s a moment, only a moment, but God, Sam sees it. (He has a good feeling Dean never stops seeing it.)
It’s Monday.
*
Dean balks when Sam refuses to head south like he asked. The last place Sam wants to go is Rufus’ cabin, but there is nowhere else to ride this out, and that’s exactly what they’re going to do. The floor creaks louder than ever, a swift reminder of how they’re alone. The opportunity to contact Sheriff Mills sits heavy in his pocket, and it’s tempting, but Sam knows that things are going to get messy and Dean would die if anyone else were around to see it.
(Messy. Understatement. He feels sick. He feels angry. He wants Bobby. He wants Ellen. He’d even take Dad.)
The first night, Sam stays up with Dean. Dean rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath, tension radiating off his body.
“You can’t stay up the whole time, so there’s no point in doing it now,” he says, carefully ignoring Sam’s gaze as he scrolls on his laptop. His shoulders are hunched, muscles pulled taut. “I don’t need to be babysat.”
Sam knows, but he can’t let himself sleep; it seems unfair to do so willingly when Dean can’t. A betrayal, almost. He says nothing, simply switching on the TV and crossing his legs. Dean gnaws on his bottom lip and his typing becomes frenzied, as if he’s pumping his frustrations into the keyboard.
Sam heads to the store and stocks up on Red Bulls and Five Hour Energies. Dean’s face tightens when he sees them, and he takes deep breaths, carefully measured, released slowly.
“Don’t,” is all he says, but Sam pops a can open and downs it, grimacing at the taste. A dull ache sweeps through his chest, painfully familiar yet distant; vodka and Red Bull was Jess’ favorite drink, and he had forgotten, much like all the other little details (what’s her favorite color? Her father’s name?) he’s been forgetting ever since. She’s slipping - slipped - through his fingers, the memory of her growing faint.
She’s gone, and he’d forgotten.
Sam shakes his head and pulls his own laptop open. He can feel Dean’s gaze, hot, overbearing. Circles darken under Dean’s eyes; always present, but disturbingly black now. Dean moves slower, but other than that, Sam can’t tell a difference.
“Find anything?” he asks, a pointless question, but needing to fill the silence.
“No,” Dean says, the word coming from his lips slow as molasses. “You’ll know when I do.” He sighs and ducks his head, one hand absently rubbing at his temple.
It’s Tuesday.
*
It’s an accident the first time. Sam has been dragging (God, has he been dragging), and the next thing he knows, he’s waking up with his face mashed against the table. He unsticks his cheek and scans the room; Dean has moved to a chair and is searching mindlessly through the TV channels.
Sam clears his throat. “Hey.”
Dean blinks but doesn’t respond, his shoulders slump, head drifting downward until his chin hits his chest. Sam holds his breath for a moment, maybe, maybe they were wrong, maybe it’s only a few days, but -
Dean lifts his head back up, mouth turned down at the corners. He looks completely and utterly miserable.
Sam tries again. “Hey.”
Dean rolls his head in Sam’s direction. “Yeah.” His tone is raspy, lazy.
“Are you hungry?”
Dean huffs a laugh. “Not really, no.”
“I got soup.”
“I don’t have the flu, Sam.” He rests his head on his hand, face drawn. “Just - go back to sleep. No use in two of us turning into zombies. Not even the cool ones, either.”
It’s Wednesday.
*
The second time Sam reopens his eyes (it’s easy, it’s too easy to drift), Dean’s own are dark and hateful, irises swallowed by black, bitterness etched into every line in Dean’s face. An empty bottle of Jack tips over, resting on his lap.
“Thought it would h’lp,” he mumbles, eyes glazing over. “Sam. I can’t - it didn’t help.” His hands twitch of their own volition and he swallows.
It’s never going to help, Sam wants to say.
It’s never going away, Sam wants to say.
“I know,” he says instead, feeling hollow.
“Sorry,” Dean mutters, wincing, raising a hand to his temple. “I - I think I have a headache. Head hurts.” His eyes are scarily bloodshot. “Did I - did I hit my head?”
“No,” Sam gets out, and he opens the bottle of ibuprofen and tips a few pills on his palm, holding it out. Dean stares at him stupidly, mouth working. “Take them.”
“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers again. “I don’t - I don’t know what you’re saying, Sam. The words are - Sam, please.” His hands move around, erratic, almost frantic. He lets a noise slip, a helpless whine. “Sammy.”
He lets Sam place the pills on his tongue but they sit there for a moment, as if Dean’s forgotten the script to this play. Sam holds a glass of water to his lips and Dean hums, swallows it down. Shudders.
“I don’t like these pills. They don’t do anything. I don’t want them.” His hands fumble for his pockets, but they come up empty. “Sammy?”
Sam grits his teeth. “What are you looking for?”
Dean gives an absent grin. “My pills. Candy in a bottle. Hey, Sam. Can you get my bag? I need my bag. Where is it?”
It’s next to Dean’s bed, where it always is, but Dean’s eyes seem to rove everywhere else.
“You don’t need them.”
Dean yawns widely. “Later, then. I’m tired. What time is it?”
Sam hesitates. “It’s four.”
Dean rubs an eye with his fist. “That’s it? Damn. Gettin’ old, huh?”
“You - you don’t remember?”
Dean stares at him blankly. “Huh? Sorry, man, my brain’s all scrambled. I gotta - let me sleep for a minute. Clear my head.”
Sam digs his nails into his knees as Dean lays back on his bed and closes his eyes. It takes five minutes for them to pop back open with resurfaced clarity and despair.
It’s Thursday.
*
Moving is an effort. Blinking is an effort. Hitches of breath (stop, stop, stop) aren’t. They slip out with ease, by habit - demonstrating decades of repetition. His arms are flung out from his sides, palms flat, fingers flexing weakly. He looks like he’s pinned down - like he believes he’s pinned down. His eyes are wet but no tears fall; Sam holds his breath, as if drawing attention to that fact would be the death of him.
Stop, Sam wants to echo.
Sam showers slowly, his own arms feeling heavy as he threads shampoo through his hair. He can almost feel Dean’s exhaustion seeping through the walls, can almost see Dean’s dead eyes staring straight through Sam.
When Sam is dressed, he walks out to see red painted on the sheets. The smell of copper is so strong Sam can taste it in the back of his throat.
Sam’s mouth is dry; he feels sick, his vision is hazy. “Dean?” he manages.
Dean’s thumb flicks the tip of his knife. He kneels between their beds, on his heels, body coiled. He smiles; blood coats his teeth. “I feel better. Sam? It’s better. I remember.”
Sam holds his hands up, doesn’t take a step. “Hey. Put the knife down, man.”
Dean frowns and clutches the handle tighter. He blinks slowly. His legs shake. “It’s mine.”
“I know,” Sam fights to keep his voice steady. “I just want to borrow it. Can I borrow it?”
Dean looks down at the knife, thinks, then shrugs. When he looks up, that smile is back. “You need it? It works. If you need it, you can have it.”
Sam swallows. “I need it.”
Dean bites his lip and traces his thigh with the blade. It’s not a deep cut, but Sam holds back a groan at the sight.
“I need it, man. Please. For me?”
“I need it too,” Dean whispers. “But - you can have it. For you.”
Dean doesn’t offer any resistance when Sam takes the knife from him, and Sam shoves it under own pillow. Sam almost doesn’t want to touch him, God, there’s blood everywhere. It coats his body like a second skin.
Dean watches with blank eyes while Sam gathers a washcloth and slowly rubs the blood away, the cloth quickly darkening with red. Dean touches the fabric with a slight frown, tilting his head. He licks his lips.
Luckily, none of the cuts need stitches, but the look in Dean’s eyes is frightening, and Sam quickly tosses the cloth out of sight. Rips the sheets off the bed and shuts them behind the closet door.
It’s not like Dean needs them, anyway.
It’s Friday.
*
Dean’s gaze is haunting. He’s long forgotten that Sam is even there. His mouth moves but no words emerge. His eyes track but there’s no recognition. He doesn’t move from his bed, only huddles into a ball and shakes, chewing on his lip until blood spills. It’s an eternity between blinks, each time Sam hoping that this will be it - only to swallow down a noise of frustration when Dean’s eyes reopen.
It’s almost impossible to get food down Dean’s throat, and Sam has taken to making milkshakes and easing the straw into Dean’s mouth, massaging his throat until he swallows. His face is pale, eyes sunken into his face. Lips bloodied; the cuts have reopened, blood caked under his fingernails.
“There’s a Back to the Future marathon,” Sam says, fingers fumbling for the volume button. “God, the third one sucks. We can keep on pretending that it doesn’t exist.”
Dean continues to breathe against Sam’s neck, uneven pants of air that barely manage to suppress a whimper. His skin is hot, feverish - almost soothing against Sam’s own cold flesh. He doesn’t answer, but Sam isn’t expecting one.
It’s Saturday.
*
Now, Dean doesn’t eat. He lets the milkshake sit in his mouth, turning away when Sam tries to ease it down his throat.
“Don’t,” he says, the liquid spilling from his mouth. He gags. “God, please don’t. Go.”
“Dean -”
“Go. Go. Go away.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I hate you - I fucking hate you, I won’t do it.”
Sam closes his eyes. Doesn’t want to, but asks anyway. “Won’t do what?”
“Don’t - don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Jesus.” Suddenly Dean’s tone changes, becoming low and menacing. “There’s no Jesus here, tiger. You’re not looking so good, are you?”
Sam’s vision is blurry. “Stop it, Dean. There’s no one here. It’s just you and me.”
“It’s never just you and me,” Dean says, almost singing the words. “Never. Never ever. Look. Turn around. The notes are on the wall. I can’t read them, but I know what they say.” His fingers trace the cuts on his forearm. “I did what he told me to; why didn’t it stop?”
“You don’t listen to him; you listen to me, understand?”
“Listening,” Dean says, voice light but shaky. His gaze is over Sam’s shoulder. “Always listening. I’m listening, I am.”
“Good,” Sam murmurs. “Good.”
“I’m sorry,” Dean blurts out suddenly. “It hurts, it hurts so fucking much, Sam, my chest, there’s something -” he claws at his collarbone, his torso - “get it out, Sam, get it out -”
It’s too easy to take hold on Dean’s wrist and pin it down, and Dean lets out a keening noise, like an animal caught in a trap.
“Get off,” he manages. “Idjit, get off -” his eyes widen in surprise and he clamps his mouth shut. His face crumples.
Words are meaningless. Words are empty. Sam tastes them on his tongue but swallows them down.
Dean cries, but he’s quiet. Dean cries, but his eyes are dull. Dean cries, and all Sam can do is sit with him, rest a hand on the nape of his neck. He feels sick. He feels like a buoy on its last legs. Sam takes a breath, squares his shoulders.
It’s Sunday.
*
Dean’s almost a corpse, his eyes unblinking, a heavy weight on Sam’s chest. Sam keeps his hand pressed against Dean’s jugular, soothed by the slow beats, the gentle reminders.
“Almost done,” Sam whispers, resting his chin on Dean’s head. “Almost there. Few more hours. You can do a few more hours. That’s nothing.”
A hiccup of breath. “Sorry.”
Sam freezes. “What?”
Dean’s voice is so weak that Sam can barely hear him. “I’ll do better. I’ll do better. Sorry. I can, I swear.”
Sam scoots down until he’s flat on his back, Dean’s head tucked under his chin. “You’re doing fine. You’re doing perfect.”
The front of Sam’s shirt is suspiciously wet. “Don’t put me back. I won’t say anything. I won’t.”
Sam squeezes his eyes shut; he can’t hear Dean anymore, but he can feel Dean’s mouth continue to move against his chest. It’s tempting to keep his eyes closed, to remember years and years ago when they’d sleep on the same bed together when Dad was gone - Dean confident and stable, pretending to roll his eyes when Sam would crawl toward him on the mattress and clutch his forearm. Dean patting his head, calling him a girl, but not pushing him away. Sam can’t remember when they both became too old for that; like so many things it slipped away without warning.
Sam’s not sure when it happens, but Dean’s breathing evens out so suddenly it’s a surprise. He looks down to see that Dean’s eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted. His features relax, face peaceful for the first time in a week.
Sam wants to weep, but he can only hold Dean closer and watch. He’s not going to sleep.
It’s Monday.
*
When Dean wakes up after twenty-six hours, he sleepily takes in the empty cans of Red Bull and pizza boxes, shakes his head, and closes his eyes again. His shirt is warm and soft against Sam’s bicep, and Sam toys with the hem as he joins his brother.
*
Dean takes one more day before he declares that it’s time to go, and Sam nods in agreement. He’d be more than happy with never seeing this cabin again. (For several reasons, none of which Sam is ready to give serious thought to.)
It’s back to another motel. Sam’s prepared for Dean to eat mounds of food, seeing as how his appetite was almost nonexistent for the past week, but he only picks at his sesame chicken. Sam feels guilty for inhaling his chicken lo mein and eying the rest of Dean’s food.
“Take it,” Dean says, pushing it over. The smile doesn’t reach beyond his lips, and the bags still sit heavy under his eyes. He motions to the bed. “Think I’m gonna hit the hay early.”
Sam swallows down the rest of his rice, mouth dry. “You sure? It’s only seven. Figured we could do some research.”
Dean hesitates. “Tomorrow. First thing.”
Sam doesn’t offer a protest when Dean slides into bed, pulling the covers over his head, but he doesn’t want to stay up by himself. Not anymore. Not ever again if he can help it. The pit of loneliness that has sunk into his chest is deep, painful.
When he clicks off the lamp, Dean sighs, but Sam’s wide awake.
Sam manages to drift, but wakes up some time later to see Dean staring at him, his eyes wide.
“I can’t sleep,” Dean says, a slight tremor in his voice. Sam stares back at him for a moment before he pushes his covers away and steps out of bed.
“Move over.”
If possible, Dean’s eyes grow wider; it would be comical in any other instance. “Huh?”
Sam doesn’t bother responding - he rolls Dean over himself before climbing into his bed, careful not to instigate further contact. Dean is already tense, arms rigid by his sides. Sam plays casual, resting his hands across his stomach. It almost hurts to remain silent, but after a few minutes, Dean slowly begins to relax, slowly begins to breathe normally. Sam waits until Dean closes his eyes before he blows out a careful breath and turns on his side, facing his brother.
He can’t remember what day it is, but it doesn't matter.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: some self-harm
Genre: Gen
Word Count: around 3,000
Spoilers: Set sometime after 7x10.
Summary: Dean gets hit with an insomnia curse, and Sam can’t do anything but watch.
Notes: Written for this prompt for the hoodie_time challenge. So much love to jaimeykay for all of her help. You’re kind of unbelievable. ♥ I hope you like it, may!
The sad thing is, they're not even on a hunt. Not one they were aware of, anyway.
(When the curse hits, Dean doesn’t even flinch.)
At first, he casts down his eyes and rolls his shoulders. His lips are slightly parted, huffing out small breaths; his eyebrows furrow in thought.
"Uh," he says.
Sam whirls around, scanning the area, but whoever it was that whispered the spell is gone. "What the hell?" he says, then turns back around. "What - do you feel - how do you feel?"
Dean rubs at his chest. "Nothing bad, I guess," he says. "Just - weird."
Sam remembers enough of the curse to look it up, and it doesn't take long to find that it's an insomnia curse. He frowns and pushes back in his chair.
"What the fuck," Dean says without heat, and Sam's wondering the same thing. "We've been in town two hours and I get reverse Rip Van Winkle-d?"
Sam shakes his head. "I dunno, man. Look, let's hole up here. Track him down; he shouldn't be hard to find once we start asking around. You can't be the first person he's done this to."
To Sam's surprise, Dean shrugs. “Not a big deal. Just blessed with more hours in the day, Sammy.” He grins, all teeth, and clamped down so hard his jaw must be aching. “Dude did us a favor is all.”
“It’s not a favor,” Sam manages, dumbfounded as he follows Dean out of their room and to the car. “You won’t be able to sleep. For a week. Do you know what sleep deprivation does to someone?”
“I’m always tired,” Dean says, the matter of fact tone painful. He blinks, looking a little surprised, like he didn’t mean for that to slip out.
Not like it’s some big secret.
Dean drives them to the local steakhouse down the block (Man's gotta keep up his strength, Sammy), where he orders their biggest sirloin and a double of Crown, please. “Can’t do anything for me, anyway. Just gotta ride it out.”
Business as usual, but Sam hides his frown; Dean's never been one to blow off a case.
(He's not killing anyone, anyway. Yeah, it sucks, but - we've got bigger fish to fry.
Are you serious? Really? You want to let this one go?
Dean lifts a shoulder. Maybe after - after. We can come back. Figure this out.)
Sam cuts his chicken into little pieces and drags them through the alfredo. He’s not sure why this is hitting him so hard, but why do things keep seeking them out, what is it about them that screams vulnerability? Hell, they’ve been keeping their heads down, kept off the grid, said their please and thank yous, avoided eye contact, smiled when they needed to.
Across the table, Dean sheds his napkin on the table, fingers shaking slightly, mouth tight. He tenses whenever someone walks by their table, flinches when the booth shakes when the frat boys behind them laugh.
It’s a moment, only a moment, but God, Sam sees it. (He has a good feeling Dean never stops seeing it.)
It’s Monday.
*
Dean balks when Sam refuses to head south like he asked. The last place Sam wants to go is Rufus’ cabin, but there is nowhere else to ride this out, and that’s exactly what they’re going to do. The floor creaks louder than ever, a swift reminder of how they’re alone. The opportunity to contact Sheriff Mills sits heavy in his pocket, and it’s tempting, but Sam knows that things are going to get messy and Dean would die if anyone else were around to see it.
(Messy. Understatement. He feels sick. He feels angry. He wants Bobby. He wants Ellen. He’d even take Dad.)
The first night, Sam stays up with Dean. Dean rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath, tension radiating off his body.
“You can’t stay up the whole time, so there’s no point in doing it now,” he says, carefully ignoring Sam’s gaze as he scrolls on his laptop. His shoulders are hunched, muscles pulled taut. “I don’t need to be babysat.”
Sam knows, but he can’t let himself sleep; it seems unfair to do so willingly when Dean can’t. A betrayal, almost. He says nothing, simply switching on the TV and crossing his legs. Dean gnaws on his bottom lip and his typing becomes frenzied, as if he’s pumping his frustrations into the keyboard.
Sam heads to the store and stocks up on Red Bulls and Five Hour Energies. Dean’s face tightens when he sees them, and he takes deep breaths, carefully measured, released slowly.
“Don’t,” is all he says, but Sam pops a can open and downs it, grimacing at the taste. A dull ache sweeps through his chest, painfully familiar yet distant; vodka and Red Bull was Jess’ favorite drink, and he had forgotten, much like all the other little details (what’s her favorite color? Her father’s name?) he’s been forgetting ever since. She’s slipping - slipped - through his fingers, the memory of her growing faint.
She’s gone, and he’d forgotten.
Sam shakes his head and pulls his own laptop open. He can feel Dean’s gaze, hot, overbearing. Circles darken under Dean’s eyes; always present, but disturbingly black now. Dean moves slower, but other than that, Sam can’t tell a difference.
“Find anything?” he asks, a pointless question, but needing to fill the silence.
“No,” Dean says, the word coming from his lips slow as molasses. “You’ll know when I do.” He sighs and ducks his head, one hand absently rubbing at his temple.
It’s Tuesday.
*
It’s an accident the first time. Sam has been dragging (God, has he been dragging), and the next thing he knows, he’s waking up with his face mashed against the table. He unsticks his cheek and scans the room; Dean has moved to a chair and is searching mindlessly through the TV channels.
Sam clears his throat. “Hey.”
Dean blinks but doesn’t respond, his shoulders slump, head drifting downward until his chin hits his chest. Sam holds his breath for a moment, maybe, maybe they were wrong, maybe it’s only a few days, but -
Dean lifts his head back up, mouth turned down at the corners. He looks completely and utterly miserable.
Sam tries again. “Hey.”
Dean rolls his head in Sam’s direction. “Yeah.” His tone is raspy, lazy.
“Are you hungry?”
Dean huffs a laugh. “Not really, no.”
“I got soup.”
“I don’t have the flu, Sam.” He rests his head on his hand, face drawn. “Just - go back to sleep. No use in two of us turning into zombies. Not even the cool ones, either.”
It’s Wednesday.
*
The second time Sam reopens his eyes (it’s easy, it’s too easy to drift), Dean’s own are dark and hateful, irises swallowed by black, bitterness etched into every line in Dean’s face. An empty bottle of Jack tips over, resting on his lap.
“Thought it would h’lp,” he mumbles, eyes glazing over. “Sam. I can’t - it didn’t help.” His hands twitch of their own volition and he swallows.
It’s never going to help, Sam wants to say.
It’s never going away, Sam wants to say.
“I know,” he says instead, feeling hollow.
“Sorry,” Dean mutters, wincing, raising a hand to his temple. “I - I think I have a headache. Head hurts.” His eyes are scarily bloodshot. “Did I - did I hit my head?”
“No,” Sam gets out, and he opens the bottle of ibuprofen and tips a few pills on his palm, holding it out. Dean stares at him stupidly, mouth working. “Take them.”
“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers again. “I don’t - I don’t know what you’re saying, Sam. The words are - Sam, please.” His hands move around, erratic, almost frantic. He lets a noise slip, a helpless whine. “Sammy.”
He lets Sam place the pills on his tongue but they sit there for a moment, as if Dean’s forgotten the script to this play. Sam holds a glass of water to his lips and Dean hums, swallows it down. Shudders.
“I don’t like these pills. They don’t do anything. I don’t want them.” His hands fumble for his pockets, but they come up empty. “Sammy?”
Sam grits his teeth. “What are you looking for?”
Dean gives an absent grin. “My pills. Candy in a bottle. Hey, Sam. Can you get my bag? I need my bag. Where is it?”
It’s next to Dean’s bed, where it always is, but Dean’s eyes seem to rove everywhere else.
“You don’t need them.”
Dean yawns widely. “Later, then. I’m tired. What time is it?”
Sam hesitates. “It’s four.”
Dean rubs an eye with his fist. “That’s it? Damn. Gettin’ old, huh?”
“You - you don’t remember?”
Dean stares at him blankly. “Huh? Sorry, man, my brain’s all scrambled. I gotta - let me sleep for a minute. Clear my head.”
Sam digs his nails into his knees as Dean lays back on his bed and closes his eyes. It takes five minutes for them to pop back open with resurfaced clarity and despair.
It’s Thursday.
*
Moving is an effort. Blinking is an effort. Hitches of breath (stop, stop, stop) aren’t. They slip out with ease, by habit - demonstrating decades of repetition. His arms are flung out from his sides, palms flat, fingers flexing weakly. He looks like he’s pinned down - like he believes he’s pinned down. His eyes are wet but no tears fall; Sam holds his breath, as if drawing attention to that fact would be the death of him.
Stop, Sam wants to echo.
Sam showers slowly, his own arms feeling heavy as he threads shampoo through his hair. He can almost feel Dean’s exhaustion seeping through the walls, can almost see Dean’s dead eyes staring straight through Sam.
When Sam is dressed, he walks out to see red painted on the sheets. The smell of copper is so strong Sam can taste it in the back of his throat.
Sam’s mouth is dry; he feels sick, his vision is hazy. “Dean?” he manages.
Dean’s thumb flicks the tip of his knife. He kneels between their beds, on his heels, body coiled. He smiles; blood coats his teeth. “I feel better. Sam? It’s better. I remember.”
Sam holds his hands up, doesn’t take a step. “Hey. Put the knife down, man.”
Dean frowns and clutches the handle tighter. He blinks slowly. His legs shake. “It’s mine.”
“I know,” Sam fights to keep his voice steady. “I just want to borrow it. Can I borrow it?”
Dean looks down at the knife, thinks, then shrugs. When he looks up, that smile is back. “You need it? It works. If you need it, you can have it.”
Sam swallows. “I need it.”
Dean bites his lip and traces his thigh with the blade. It’s not a deep cut, but Sam holds back a groan at the sight.
“I need it, man. Please. For me?”
“I need it too,” Dean whispers. “But - you can have it. For you.”
Dean doesn’t offer any resistance when Sam takes the knife from him, and Sam shoves it under own pillow. Sam almost doesn’t want to touch him, God, there’s blood everywhere. It coats his body like a second skin.
Dean watches with blank eyes while Sam gathers a washcloth and slowly rubs the blood away, the cloth quickly darkening with red. Dean touches the fabric with a slight frown, tilting his head. He licks his lips.
Luckily, none of the cuts need stitches, but the look in Dean’s eyes is frightening, and Sam quickly tosses the cloth out of sight. Rips the sheets off the bed and shuts them behind the closet door.
It’s not like Dean needs them, anyway.
It’s Friday.
*
Dean’s gaze is haunting. He’s long forgotten that Sam is even there. His mouth moves but no words emerge. His eyes track but there’s no recognition. He doesn’t move from his bed, only huddles into a ball and shakes, chewing on his lip until blood spills. It’s an eternity between blinks, each time Sam hoping that this will be it - only to swallow down a noise of frustration when Dean’s eyes reopen.
It’s almost impossible to get food down Dean’s throat, and Sam has taken to making milkshakes and easing the straw into Dean’s mouth, massaging his throat until he swallows. His face is pale, eyes sunken into his face. Lips bloodied; the cuts have reopened, blood caked under his fingernails.
“There’s a Back to the Future marathon,” Sam says, fingers fumbling for the volume button. “God, the third one sucks. We can keep on pretending that it doesn’t exist.”
Dean continues to breathe against Sam’s neck, uneven pants of air that barely manage to suppress a whimper. His skin is hot, feverish - almost soothing against Sam’s own cold flesh. He doesn’t answer, but Sam isn’t expecting one.
It’s Saturday.
*
Now, Dean doesn’t eat. He lets the milkshake sit in his mouth, turning away when Sam tries to ease it down his throat.
“Don’t,” he says, the liquid spilling from his mouth. He gags. “God, please don’t. Go.”
“Dean -”
“Go. Go. Go away.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I hate you - I fucking hate you, I won’t do it.”
Sam closes his eyes. Doesn’t want to, but asks anyway. “Won’t do what?”
“Don’t - don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Jesus.” Suddenly Dean’s tone changes, becoming low and menacing. “There’s no Jesus here, tiger. You’re not looking so good, are you?”
Sam’s vision is blurry. “Stop it, Dean. There’s no one here. It’s just you and me.”
“It’s never just you and me,” Dean says, almost singing the words. “Never. Never ever. Look. Turn around. The notes are on the wall. I can’t read them, but I know what they say.” His fingers trace the cuts on his forearm. “I did what he told me to; why didn’t it stop?”
“You don’t listen to him; you listen to me, understand?”
“Listening,” Dean says, voice light but shaky. His gaze is over Sam’s shoulder. “Always listening. I’m listening, I am.”
“Good,” Sam murmurs. “Good.”
“I’m sorry,” Dean blurts out suddenly. “It hurts, it hurts so fucking much, Sam, my chest, there’s something -” he claws at his collarbone, his torso - “get it out, Sam, get it out -”
It’s too easy to take hold on Dean’s wrist and pin it down, and Dean lets out a keening noise, like an animal caught in a trap.
“Get off,” he manages. “Idjit, get off -” his eyes widen in surprise and he clamps his mouth shut. His face crumples.
Words are meaningless. Words are empty. Sam tastes them on his tongue but swallows them down.
Dean cries, but he’s quiet. Dean cries, but his eyes are dull. Dean cries, and all Sam can do is sit with him, rest a hand on the nape of his neck. He feels sick. He feels like a buoy on its last legs. Sam takes a breath, squares his shoulders.
It’s Sunday.
*
Dean’s almost a corpse, his eyes unblinking, a heavy weight on Sam’s chest. Sam keeps his hand pressed against Dean’s jugular, soothed by the slow beats, the gentle reminders.
“Almost done,” Sam whispers, resting his chin on Dean’s head. “Almost there. Few more hours. You can do a few more hours. That’s nothing.”
A hiccup of breath. “Sorry.”
Sam freezes. “What?”
Dean’s voice is so weak that Sam can barely hear him. “I’ll do better. I’ll do better. Sorry. I can, I swear.”
Sam scoots down until he’s flat on his back, Dean’s head tucked under his chin. “You’re doing fine. You’re doing perfect.”
The front of Sam’s shirt is suspiciously wet. “Don’t put me back. I won’t say anything. I won’t.”
Sam squeezes his eyes shut; he can’t hear Dean anymore, but he can feel Dean’s mouth continue to move against his chest. It’s tempting to keep his eyes closed, to remember years and years ago when they’d sleep on the same bed together when Dad was gone - Dean confident and stable, pretending to roll his eyes when Sam would crawl toward him on the mattress and clutch his forearm. Dean patting his head, calling him a girl, but not pushing him away. Sam can’t remember when they both became too old for that; like so many things it slipped away without warning.
Sam’s not sure when it happens, but Dean’s breathing evens out so suddenly it’s a surprise. He looks down to see that Dean’s eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted. His features relax, face peaceful for the first time in a week.
Sam wants to weep, but he can only hold Dean closer and watch. He’s not going to sleep.
It’s Monday.
*
When Dean wakes up after twenty-six hours, he sleepily takes in the empty cans of Red Bull and pizza boxes, shakes his head, and closes his eyes again. His shirt is warm and soft against Sam’s bicep, and Sam toys with the hem as he joins his brother.
*
Dean takes one more day before he declares that it’s time to go, and Sam nods in agreement. He’d be more than happy with never seeing this cabin again. (For several reasons, none of which Sam is ready to give serious thought to.)
It’s back to another motel. Sam’s prepared for Dean to eat mounds of food, seeing as how his appetite was almost nonexistent for the past week, but he only picks at his sesame chicken. Sam feels guilty for inhaling his chicken lo mein and eying the rest of Dean’s food.
“Take it,” Dean says, pushing it over. The smile doesn’t reach beyond his lips, and the bags still sit heavy under his eyes. He motions to the bed. “Think I’m gonna hit the hay early.”
Sam swallows down the rest of his rice, mouth dry. “You sure? It’s only seven. Figured we could do some research.”
Dean hesitates. “Tomorrow. First thing.”
Sam doesn’t offer a protest when Dean slides into bed, pulling the covers over his head, but he doesn’t want to stay up by himself. Not anymore. Not ever again if he can help it. The pit of loneliness that has sunk into his chest is deep, painful.
When he clicks off the lamp, Dean sighs, but Sam’s wide awake.
Sam manages to drift, but wakes up some time later to see Dean staring at him, his eyes wide.
“I can’t sleep,” Dean says, a slight tremor in his voice. Sam stares back at him for a moment before he pushes his covers away and steps out of bed.
“Move over.”
If possible, Dean’s eyes grow wider; it would be comical in any other instance. “Huh?”
Sam doesn’t bother responding - he rolls Dean over himself before climbing into his bed, careful not to instigate further contact. Dean is already tense, arms rigid by his sides. Sam plays casual, resting his hands across his stomach. It almost hurts to remain silent, but after a few minutes, Dean slowly begins to relax, slowly begins to breathe normally. Sam waits until Dean closes his eyes before he blows out a careful breath and turns on his side, facing his brother.
He can’t remember what day it is, but it doesn't matter.