Things We Couldn't Change
Things We Couldn't Change
Summary: Sam is angry (and kind of traumatized). Dean is worried (and concussed). Neither of them knows what to do now. Sequel to Anywhere Else But Here.
A/N: Sequel to Anywhere Else But Here, picking up pretty much immediately after the events of that story so make sure you've read that first otherwise I'm not sure this will make sense. Hope you enjoy!
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“Sammy?” Dean is tapping tentatively on the bathroom door. Sam dunks his head back under the shower stream and tries to ignore his brother. Maybe Dean will take the hint. “Sam, are you okay in there?”
Fucking awesome, Sam thinks sarcastically. Now leave me alone.
Dean ignores his attempt at telepathy. “You've been in there almost an hour, Sammy. That water must be freezing.”
The water has been freezing for at least the last twenty minutes. “Go away, Dean!” Sam yells over the sound of the spray, trying not to sound like his teeth are chattering.
Dean does go away. Sam hears him move aside and drop down onto the creaky bedsprings, which is what he wanted except that now he feels guilty about it. He's not mad at Dean. He's not sure who he's mad at. The guys at the bar. Dad, maybe. Definitely not Dean. Dean's just the only one here.
With an ill-tempered sigh, he reaches out and shuts the water off. His waterlogged fingers are numb, nail beds a pale blue, and he still doesn't feel clean. He used to think that was a cliché.
Sam dresses quickly, ignoring the pile of dirty clothes he'd kicked into the corner before his shower. He pulls on fresh boxers and sweatpants that he has to hike up to stop from tripping over, and Dean's old Iron Maiden t-shirt. He only glances in the mirror for a second, planning on exchanging a dissatisfied grimace over the hand-me-downs with his reflection, but he catches sight of the impressive bruise darkening his jaw, puffing up his lower lip, instead. His eyes are bloodshot even though at least an hour has passed since his breakdown in the Impala and he doesn't think it's the fluorescent lights that make him look so pale. He can't tear his eyes away from the bruise. He raises his arms to towel off his hair, which is plastered to his forehead, dripping down his neck, and unexpected bile rushes up his throat.
He throws up in the sink.
He doesn't hear the bathroom door open but he knows Dean's there before he feels the hesitant hand on his back. He spits and turns on the tap, closing his eyes so he doesn't have to watch the mess circle the drain, and takes a deep, steadying breath.
“You should be lying down,” he says levelly, risking a quick glance at his brother's reflection. The gauze Sam taped to Dean's forehead before escaping to the bathroom is clean. Good. His hands were shaking too much for stitches but the butterfly bandages must be holding. Sam looks away, turns off the faucet.
“I'm fine,” Dean says.
“I gave you the strong painkillers,” Sam points out.
“Maybe you should be lying down,” Dean suggests, really gently like Sam might break if he speaks normally, which makes Sam scowl.
“I'm going to.” He shrugs off the hand on his back, turns away from the sink and brushes past Dean, ignoring the way his brother sways a little at the loss of support. And Dean thinks Sam's the broken one.
“Did you take any painkillers?” Dean follows him out of the bathroom. Sam feels himself flush under Dean's scrutiny as he sits gingerly on the edge of his bed, cringing at the throb of abused flesh that carries the memory of rough hands and helpless humiliation. He climbs under the blankets to avoid making eye contact but Dean only follows up with, “He hit you pretty hard.”
“I'm fine,” Sam says, twisting his fingers into the washed-soft sheets. Dean's still standing at the foot of the bed, watching him. Sam stares at the ceiling. “You owe me an English essay.”
“What?”
It's all Sam can think to say. “My essay. I left it at the bar. And my backpack. I guess it doesn't matter that we're leaving town now. I can't turn it in anyway.”
A glance at Dean shows that his brother is staring at him in utter bewilderment, an edge of uncertainty amid the concern. Sam is talking about homework. Why is he talking about homework? Maybe because he knows that Dean thinks they should talk about what happened, wants to fix things and make him feel better. And maybe it's stupid and petty but Sam doesn't want to feel better. He's just so angry, and he wants to stay angry because at least that would be his decision. At least he has control over that.
“Sammy, I'm so, so sorry-”
“I know you are,” Sam mutters to the ceiling.
“Sam...” The bed shifts as Dean's weight settles tentatively on the end of the mattress. Sam ignores him. “Sam, please, I... I'd give anything for none of this to have happened. To change things. I messed up. I shouldn't have taken you with me. I should've kept you safe-”
“And who would've kept you safe?” Sam snaps. He doesn't want to listen to Dean berate himself, doesn't want to think about 'what ifs' and 'should haves'. He sits up so suddenly that Dean, already unsteady, startles and tumbles off the bed. And he looks so pathetic, so desperately remorseful and lost, sitting on the floor, that Sam feels the anger drain out of him before he even has a chance to start really getting worked up. “Dean, just... stop. Just stop. I'm not angry at you.”
I'm angry that this is our life. He leaves the thought unspoken. Dean wouldn't understand. Dean would tell him that hunting wasn't to blame for what happened, as if they would have been anywhere near that crap hole of a bar if Dad hadn't left them here alone so he could run off and fight monsters.
Sighing to himself, Sam slides out of bed and reaches out a hand to help Dean. His brother is barely on his feet before Sam's shoving him back down on his own bed.
“You should be angry at me,” Dean says dejectedly. He lets Sam manhandle him out of his jacket and obediently lies down when Sam gives his shoulder a push.
“Tough.” Sam pulls the blankets over his brother, and Dean's hand wraps around his wrist.
“I just... I don't know what to do here, Sammy. Yell at me or something.”
Sam gently pries Dean's fingers free, setting his hand down on the bed carefully to avoid looking Dean in the eye. “For what? It wasn't your fault. You were too busy bleeding everywhere to do anything.”
“I should've done something...” The pills are starting to drag Dean under, his eyelids drooping. “I should've stopped him...”
Finally, Sam looks at him. Dean will never forgive himself if he doesn't say it, even if it feels like something Dad would say. Even though he doesn't actually know if he really means it. “You taught me how to fight, Dean. That's how you stopped him, okay? You're just not thinking straight because you have a concussion.”
Dean wants to say more, Sam can tell, but he only has time to utter one more thing before his eyes close, weighed down by exhaustion and drugs.
“'m so sorry, Sammy.”
Sam sits down on the edge of his own bed and feels like the walls are creeping inwards. Dean is sorry that he couldn't help, and Dad is sorry that they always have to move, and Sam is sorry that all he wants in the world is to be anywhere else but here.
It's just too bad that being sorry doesn't change anything.