Small Victories
Small Victories
Summary: They're in the middle of freaking no where when Sam goes bat shit insane.
A/N: Written for the OhSam Triple Play Challenge. Prompt at the end.
Warnings: Swearing, insanity
They're in the middle of freaking no where when Sam goes bat shit insane, and Dean has really got to stop using that expression because it's kind of not just an expression when it comes to Sam these days, not since Cas shattered the wall that was holding all the crazy back.
It comes on suddenly, except Dean thinks that might just be his perception because Sam's been sitting, silent and tense in the passenger seat, flinching occasionally, for the last hour, so it probably isn't sudden for Sam. That doesn't stop Dean from almost crashing the Impala when his brother explodes and starts screaming and trying to beat up something - Someone. Lucifer. - in the backseat.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dean shouts as he slams on the breaks, the momentum pitching him forward before jerking him back into his seat. “What the hell, Sam!”
Sam doesn't seem to hear him, maybe isn't even aware that he's here, but he does stop flailing about with those crazy-long arms that were coming uncomfortably close to smacking Dean in the head, so that's good. At least, it's good until Dean realizes that he's swapped fighting for literally pulling his hair out, scrabbling and tearing at it frantically like it's some creature attacking him, and he still hasn't stopped screaming.
“Jesus Christ, Sam! Stop!” He reaches out to drag Sam's hands away and is rewarded with Sam turning panicked eyes and hands on him instead. He has to stop reaching for Sam and hold his arms up to protect himself from the blows, until Sam scrambles for the door handle and throws himself out of the car.
Yeah, Dean's really glad that he hit the breaks.
He leaps out of the car too, afraid that Sam's going to hit the ground running and disappear, but Sam just collapses on the ground and starts ripping at his hair again, and now Dean can hear the words hidden in his screams.
“Get off me! Get off me, don't fucking touch me!”
And Dean kind of wants to just collapse himself and start crying or something equally as stupid because this is how it's going to be for ever. Sam's soul is shattered. Dean can't put it back together. No one, and no thing, can put it back together. This is all there is, insanity interspersed with increasingly-smaller periods of lucidity.
He doesn't throw himself down on the ground and cry though because, real or not real, Sam's being attacked by the fucking devil and Dean's not exactly going to just stand there and watch. Instead of trying to grab him this time (he adds that to his list of Thing Not To Do When Sam's Having a Hell-induced Freak Out) he raises his arms in the universal position of surrender and edges his way towards his brother.
“Sammy,” he says. He's trying to sound gentle and non-threatening but it's kind of hard when he has to shout just to be heard over Sam's cries. “Sammy, it's me. It's Dean. Whatever you're seeing, it's not real. Lucifer's not real.”
Sam's eyes flicker towards him now, terrified and suspicious, but it's a start at least. Dean takes a couple of slow, careful steps closer and drops to a crouch so he's not towering over Sam.
“Dean?” Sam whispers uncertainly, his hands stilling for a moment. Dean sees beads of blood welling up on his scalp, his fingers tangled with strands of hair.
“Yeah,” Dean breathes, afraid that speaking too loud will set Sam off again. “Yeah, it's me. Just calm do-”
That's as far as he gets before Sam's eyes glaze over with that vacant, frightened look that he gets far too fucking often these days, and poof, it's like Dean doesn't exist anymore. Just Sammy and Lucifer. Just Dean's kid brother fighting the devil all by himself, and losing.
“Stop it, don't touch me, stop,” Sam's crying, and Dean feels like he's been gut-punched, just like he feels every time this happens and is it just him or is it getting worse each time? He crouches there and reminds his lungs that he still needs to breathe if he's going to have a chance at getting through to Sam. He crouches there and wonders how the hell he ever thought he would be able to help Sam through this. He crouches there and does nothing because he can't think of anything to do that might actually help and he is the worlds worst brother because no matter what he tells himself, he can't fight the devil for Sam. Maybe he will cry now.
Except he doesn't because that's the moment Sam twists one arm down and tugs the knife from his ankle strap and Dean doesn't think anything, doesn't weigh his options and take the time to decide which course of action won't end in Sam going off the rails on a crazy train, he just reacts. When the choices come down to a crazy Sam or a dead Sam Dean will pick crazy every fucking time.
He leaps forward, pushing out of his crouch, and throws himself onto Sam, knocking him onto his back and pinning his hand to the ground above his head. Dean digs his fingers into his brother's wrist until Sam releases the knife with a small cry.
“If you think I'm about to let you kill yourself you really are crazy,” he growls, which may not be the most sensitive thing to say but who cares, Dean's never been a sensitive kind of guy and he's unfairly pissed off at Sam for pulling this shit.
“What?” Sam gasps, twisting underneath him, trying to retrieve the knife. “No, not- Dean, no, I just need- He won't stop fucking with my hair. I need to cut my hair.”
Dean stares down at him for a long moment. “You want to cut your hair?” he asks, sure he must have heard that wrong.
Sam won't stop writhing about, like reaching the knife is an intense physical need he couldn't fight if he tried. “Yes. No. I just need to cut it. It's full of him. Dean, please.”
This is a bad idea. “Okay. Wait,” he says when Sam tries to shove him away. “Wait. I'll do it, okay? Last thing we need is you slicing your head off by accident. Deal?”
Sam considers this, then his gaze jerks to the side, at thin fucking air, and he flinches away desperately. “Okay, deal, just do it fast.”
Dean grabs the knife before he lets Sam up and looks from it to Sam, hoping that he might change his mind but Sam's sitting on the ground with his knees pulled up to his chest and his eyes squeezed shut, wincing at imagined hands. He looks seconds away from tearing his hair out with his hands again.
“Uh... so you have a particular style in mind or...” That's a stupid question, Dean, what the hell is wrong with you?
“Short,” Sam says tersely without opening his eyes. “Just, short enough that it can't be pulled or played with or... anything. Just cut it off, please, now.”
He should get the scissors from their med kit but he doesn't think Sam can wait that long. “Okay, I'm gonna do it. Don't freak out when I touch your hair, okay?”
Sam doesn't, due to what seems like an extreme display of self-control. Dean runs his fingers gently through the dark locks that have been a part of Sam for as long as he can remember and feels the ridiculous urge to flip Lucifer off. The fucking devil has already taken everything, Sam's life, his sanity, and now his hair.
“Dean...” Sam whimpers anxiously, and Dean shakes his head, tries to steady his hands.
“Okay, don't worry.” He gathers up a chunk of hair in one hand and positions the knife about an inch from Sam's scalp in the other. He takes a deep breath and spares a moment to glare uselessly in the direction Sam's flinching away from, then he tugs the knife back, feeling it slice easily through the bunch of hair with a soft shhhnick. He looks down at the severed clump in his hand and sighs before he lets it drop to the ground.
He feels sick as he gathers up another handful and cuts that off too but as he continues, he feels the tension in Sam draining with each discarded chunk so at least he can tell himself that he's doing the right thing. He crouches down to work on the back.
“Screw you,” he hears Sam mutter, not to him but to the imaginary devil that lives in Sam's head. “It's mine. I can do whatever I want with it.”
“You tell him, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, though he's not sure if he should be encouraging talking to hallucinations. Fuck, he's not sure about anything these days so if Sam wants to tell the devil to go screw himself then he damn well can.
“He liked my hair,” Sam says, surprising Dean with the admission and then by laughing, short and vaguely hysterical but a laugh nonetheless. “For once I get to take something away from him.”
Well, if Sam wants to see it that way, Dean isn't going to argue.
END
Prompt:
1 the side of the road
2 Dean
3 having to cut all Sam's hair off because of some emergency