Just One Fix (Part 3/?)
Sam doesn’t get better.
Physically, he heals, and in the week before Jessica’s funeral Dean almost thinks that they might just pull through. Sam stands tall next to Dean as they lower the casket into the grave, doesn’t seem to shed a tear and when people come up to him and offer their condolences, he says all the right things. He holds Jess’ mother tight to his chest, accepts a hug from his father, but politely declines their invitation to attend the wake.
The three of them, along with Carmen, go back to Mary’s house - their house - and Mary sets about making coffee for them. It’s not until she’s setting them on the table that Sam breaks.
It’s like a rubber band snapping, sudden and shocking.
One second he’s slipping into his seat and the next he’s knocking things off the counter and screaming and crying; by the time that Dean gets close enough to restrain him, he’s already wheeling away, the front door slamming shut behind him.
They drive around for hours, searching everywhere that they can think of, before finally heading home feeling sick and scared.
Sam stumbles home four days later and never offers an explanation.
Later, Dean will wonder if they ever really asked.
It soon turns out that the night of Jessica’s funeral marks the beginning of months where Sam disappears for days at a time, without so much as a phone call to let them know that he’s alright. There’s never any warning, no pattern that Dean can work out, just the sudden realisation that Sam’s gone again and the terror that follows it.
He always stumbles back in eventually; wearing the same clothes as when he left, just a little bit skinnier and a whole lot paler, most of the time coherent but sometimes with eyes just glazed enough to make Dean wonder.
Occasionally his knuckles are bruised and split, as if he’d been roughhousing for hours.
Looking back, Dean’s ashamed to admit that it takes them over a month to figure out what’s happening. It seems that even in the state that he’s in, Sam’s still using his brain when it counts - Dean and Mary are so focused on his disappearing acts that they hardly even notice the long-sleeved shirts.
It’s not until he walks in on Sam changing that everything falls into place, and Dean feels sick at the sight of the tell-tale track marks and bruises on his arms.
“So that’s what this is?” Dean asks bitterly, watching as Sam’s jumps guiltily and his eyes widen as they take in his brother. “We’re here doing our to take care of you, and you’re out there getting high? I thought you were better than that. Do you have any idea what it feels like when you just take off like that?”
Sam sinks onto his bed, head in his hands and his whole body quivering.
“You don’t understand,” He whispers to the floor. “I can’t do this... this is the only way.”
“No,” Dean tells him sharply. “This isn’t ‘doing’ anything. This is you giving up, and if you’ve already given up? Well, there’s no point in us even trying with you anymore. You’ve already made your mind up.”
Sam’s head flies up, his pupils wide and almost scared-looking. “No! No, I mean, I’m not... I haven’t given up. I am trying Dean.”
His eyes fill with tears, and he sounds miserable, like the kid that Dean remembers. Perhaps the saddest thing is that Dean believes every word that’s coming out of his brother’s mouth; shit, but the kid’s lost his way more than a little.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” He confesses, head dipping back to the floor. Tiny spots darken on the carpet when his tears begin to fall, and Dean feels what little anger he still possessed melt.
“I know you don’t,” He tells his brother softly, sinking onto the bed beside him. Sam hesitates for a brief moment before he tucks himself into Dean’s side, back shaking with his sobs, the sharp jut of his spine making Dean’s stomach roll uneasily as it presses into his arm. “We’ll figure this out, Sammy.”
He spends the rest of the night at the dining table with his mom.
They talk for a while, discuss their options, and then they pull out their laptops and get to work. Dean’s hands tremble when he types the word ‘heroin’ into google, can still remember the way Sam’s voice cracked when he revealed exactly what it was that he’d been pumping into his veins.
“No rehab,” Sam had told him carefully. “I know I need to stop - to get better. Just... let me do this by myself?”
Dean hadn’t made any promises - didn’t know where to start, whether it would even be safe to let Sam go cold turkey. He knew that quitting alcohol straight away could kill you and although most of the internet searches seem to suggest that it’s safer than it might seem, although most of them recommend that it’s done with the aid of medical professionals.
They discuss it at length, him and his mom, about how trying to force Sam’s hand might make him reassess his choice to quit. About how scared he’d looked, as Dean had tucked him into bed and kissed his forehead, like he was a five year old kid who needed a bedtime story before he could sleep. About the fact that, even if they successfully get Sam through withdrawal this time, it doesn’t mean that it might not happen again.
“Heroin cravings can continue for years, even after a dependant has stopped using,” Dean reads aloud, spinning his mug around between his fingers. “These cravings appear to be especially prominent in situations of stress, or when the dependant is exposed to people, places or objects that they associate with drug use.”
“Oh, God,” Mary breathes, wiping her face clean from tears, not for the first time that night. “How did we let it get this far? How didn’t we notice this?”
“I don’t know,” Dean answers honestly. “But we’re going to fix it.”
When Sam wakes up the next morning, Dean sits him down at the table with a cup of coffee and a plateful of breakfast, dutifully ignoring the way that his brother’s hands are shaking and he seems unable to meet their eyes.
“The second that we think this is beyond what we can manage,” Dean tells him sternly. “We’re taking you to the hospital. You understand?”
Sam nods slowly, staring down at his scrambled eggs as if they hold the answers to the world. There’s a few moments of silence as Dean and Mary dig into their own breakfasts, and Sam eats a few mouthfuls, and then his hand slowly moves across the table - as if he’s worried that Dean might not want to touch him - and his fingertips press against Dean’s, the barest of touches.
“Thank you.”
The day that they start Sam’s withdrawal, Carmen phones. She says she’s sorry, but she just can’t do this anymore. Dean doesn’t blame her and, though he hates to admit it, he’s really not as bothered as he should be.
He has more important things to worry about.
Six hours in, they have to lock the doors.
Sam’s pacing the length of the lounge, itching at the skin on his arms as if it’s irritating him - logically, Dean knows that it’s far more likely that he’s irritated by the lack of heroin than by the skin on his arms, but no amount of rationalisation can make the sight any less disturbing.
Mary fusses in the kitchen, cooking up dinner to cover the noise of her tears, but Dean settles down on the sofa. He’s not letting his brother go through this alone - there’s been enough of that over the last few years, and he’s determined that this won’t be like that. Won’t be like the months after his dad’s death - where Sam would wake up screaming, remembering the way that his father had collapsed into his youngest son’s arms, and Dean had lain awake and done nothing.
He’s determined to stick it out.
Sam alternates between snapping at him and worrying bouts of silence, tears occasionally dripping off his cheeks; Dean doesn’t know if they’re because he’s genuinely upset, or just a part of the process - his body overproducing bodily fluids as it tries to rebalance itself.
Eight hours in, he curls up in the armchair on the far end of the room and shakes.
“It hurts,” He whispers. “Dean, Dean, please - it hurts.”
‘It’s normal,’ Dean reminds himself. ‘Just aches and pains. Nothing serious.’
He turns up the TV and pretends not to hear, forcing a laugh when the guy on the screen falls off his mountain bike and into a river. He doesn’t move for the remainder of the comedy show, forces himself to laugh when he has to, and half-way through, Sam drags himself from the chair and across the room, curling into Dean’s side.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers, and then, “Dean, it hurts.”
Its pitiful, his brother broken and begging, and for a brief - irrational - moment, Dean considers combing the streets until he finds a dealer, just to relieve his brother from the short-term pain.
‘Think of the bigger picture,’ He coaches himself, and grips the arm of the sofa until his knuckles are white. ‘It’ll be worth it in the end.’
Two hours later, Sam’s still whispering.
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