Fic H/C challenge....
Title: Little Engine
Total Words: 4,045
Genre(s): Gen; angst
Pairing(s): N/A
Rating: PG-13
Type: Prompt Fic…
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sigh. They’re Kripke’s….I’m just borrowing them ……for fun, not profit….
Spoilers: Up to 5.6
Warnings: Rated for language, adult themes, drug references, violence.
Summary: The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, Sam learnt that the hard way. The road to redemption? That’s a long, hard, painful, uphill battle.
A/N: This was written for the h/c challenge at ohsam.
The prompt (by cordelia_gray) was: “So there was this little interview in TV Guide with Jared and Jensen, and Jared said that Sam is his inspiration, because he takes so many hits and keeps on going. This is totally one of the things I love about Sam, too. Anything on this theme would be lovely, but particularly something set in early/mid S5, where Sam is trying to overcome his addiction and repair his relationship with Dean. Maybe he ends up going to NA meetings in between hunts?”
________________________
Dean is quiet all the way back to the motel and that’s just fine with Sam because his shoulder hurts like a bitch and most of his focus is taken up with trying not to let any blood seep through his jacket and onto the Impala’s upholstery. Dean won’t forgive him for getting blood on his baby’s leather seats; he’s not big on forgiveness these days; at least not when it comes to Sam.
Sam shifts slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position and risks a sideways glance at his brother. Dean is fuming silently beside him and Sam knows that later his big brother is going to be spitting words like reckless, irresponsible, and careless at him. He probably deserves them.
He jars his shoulder getting out of the car and he can’t quite stifle his gasp of pain. Dean’s eyes narrow and, oh yeah; Sam knows what that look means; there’s going to be yelling, and lots of it, the minute the door to their motel room closes. Sam sighs and follows his brother’s stiff back across the car park and into Room 13 of the Starry Night Motel (Ceiling fans! Color TV!).
The décor is obscenely kitsch; ceramic plates painted with too-cute fawning kittens hang crooked on one (green) wall; psychedelic-patterned wallpaper in bubblegum pink is pasted onto another. Looking at it makes Sam nauseous; or maybe he just has a concussion.
Sam tries to slip inconspicuously into the bathroom, but it’s hard to be inconspicuous when you’re 6ft4.
“Where the fuck are you going?” Dean demands.
“Bathroom?”
Dean points at Sam’s bed.
“Sit down!”
“Dean-”
“Sit!”
Sam sits.
Dean paces.
“Dean-”
“Shut up! I haven’t even started yet! Do you have any idea what a stupid, dumb-ass move that was, throwing yourself at that thing? Do you have any fucking clue just how….how….”
“Reckless?” Sam supplies.
“Yes! Reckless. And….and….”
“Irresponsible?” Sam suggests.
Dean glowers.
“Goddamn it Sam! You could’ve been killed!”
“Dean?”
“What?”
“Could you maybe lecture and stitch?”
Dean stares for a minute and is suddenly by Sam’s side.
“Where?”
“Shoulder.”
Dean peels Sam’s jacket off and the sticky, almost black blood covering his brother’s upper arm has him grimacing. He pulls Sam’s over-shirt off as quickly as he can and then hauls ass out to the car for the First Aid Kit. He cuts Sam’s tee-shirt off him and surveys his brother’s wound.
“Shit, Sammy,” he says gruffly, “I can’t believe you let that bitch get her claws into you too!”
Sam merely grunts.
Dean swabs the wound with Holy Water. There’s no sizzle and burn and Dean’s relief is palpable.
“Good, good,” he mutters, “no supernatural infection.”
He meets Sam’s eyes.
“You want Nyquil or the good stuff?”
Sam holds out a hand for the Nyquil and chugs down three times the recommended dose while Dean pulls a sterilized needle out of a clean packet and threads it with dental floss.
Dean pours whiskey on the wound and shit! that does burn.
“You ready?”
Sam nods curtly and wishes he had something better to stare at than a kitten painted on a plate. The first stitch is always the worst and Sam stiffens reflexively.
“Relax,” Dean says softly and for just a moment Sam is twenty-two again with a brother who trusts and respects him. He wills himself to relax; counts his heartbeats, focuses on his breathing and tries not to remember all the times he had to stitch himself up because there was no-one else to do it.
Twenty minutes later the wound is closed, Dean has washed it off again with whiskey, and bandaged it.
“Thanks,” Sam says.
His brother merely grunts in response.
“I’ll pop it back now,” he says.
Sam grimaces.
Dean puts one hand on either side of his shoulder, careful to avoid his stitches.
“Okay,” he says, “On-” and he snaps Sam’s dislocated shoulder back into place before he has a chance to tense up.
“Fuck!” Sam yells.
“Anything else I should know about?” Dean asks.
“Concussion, maybe?” Sam mumbles, “I hit my head pretty hard.”
Dean does the how many fingers am I holding up thing, examines his pupils, asks him about nausea and pain and sensitivity to light and finally concludes that Sam will be okay. He pours himself a double shot of whiskey and then sits down on his own bed and stares at Sam.
“So,” he says, “Care to tell me what possessed you to throw yourself off a cliff and into the path of a Lamiae?”
Sam rolls his eyes, “It was a ledge, not a cliff.”
“Not really the point, Sam.”
Sam sighs.
“I was just doing my job. You were focused on getting the kids out of that cave. It didn’t look like you’d heard her sneaking up on you.”
Dean huffs. “Oh, so we’re back to that I’m a better hunter than you crap, are we?”
Sam shakes his head. “No. We’re back to that I’m your brother and I’ve got your back crap.”
Dean puts a hand over his face.
“You could’ve been killed, Sammy.”
Sam is silent for a moment and then he says it:
“Yeah? Well better me than you. In case you’ve forgotten, I didn’t cope so well the last time you died.”
Dean sags visibly and Sam could kick himself.
“Not your fault,” he says, “My choices; my mistakes.”
“Yeah,” Dean replies after a moment, “But I left you alone to make them.”
“They were still my choices; my mistakes. I’m an adult, Dean; you’re not responsible for my bad decisions.”
Dean nods.
“I’m gonna take a shower. You should get some sleep.”
Sam recognizes a dismissal when he hears one; he was raised by John Winchester after all.
He lies down on top of his blankets, closes his eyes and listens to the soothing sound of the shower running, followed shortly after by the calming rhythms of his brother moving around the room, choosing clothes, getting dressed. When Dean stops next to his bed he considers feigning sleep, but Dean always could tell when he was just pretending and in light of, well, everything, honesty is definitely the best policy with Dean at the moment. So Sam opens his eyes and looks up at his brother.
“You okay?” Dean asks.
“Fine. Just sleepy.”
Dean nods.
“I’m gonna go out.” His eyes are sparkling and his face lights up with an impish grin, “That bar with the moose head over the door? Gonna go there for a beer.”
Sam grins.
“The one with the moose….?” he says, pretending confusion, “Oh! You mean the one with the red-headed barmaid?”
Dean looks smug. “She gets off at ten. Don’t wait up, Sammy.”
Sam waits until the Impala has purred out of the motel car park and then gets to his feet. Tucked away in amongst his clean underwear (where Dean will never look) is a piece of paper, folded very small. He unfolds it and studies the information carefully, looking for a place close by that has something at a suitable time.
He printed this out a week ago. Dean had left him alone at the library to do research while he went to re-interview an attractive slender brunette who thought she’d maybe seen something.
Last year, Sam would have used Dean’s absence to hook up with Ruby; get a fresh, warm dose. It bothers him that he’s still doing things behind his brother’s back, but he’s just not ready to share this yet.
Sam is pleased to find something which starts in half an hour and is within walking distance of the motel. He pulls on some clean clothes, breathing around the pain this causes his shoulder, then takes a final look around the room before leaving quietly.
-X-
Sam is feeling relaxed, positive and in control; right up until he spots the Impala parked outside their motel room. What happened to: ‘Don’t wait up, Sammy’? He stutters to a halt, takes several deep, calming breaths and then takes his cell phone out of his pocket and switches it back on. He has eight missed calls from Dean. And when he checks his voicemail? Yeah….Dean’s pissed.
Sam walks to their door like a man walking to the gallows. He’s reaching forwards with their room key when the door is abruptly snatched open. Dean grabs his arm and hauls him into the room, throwing him so hard that he stumbles. Sam regains his balance quickly and whirls to face his very angry brother.
He’s expecting it, so it doesn’t come as a surprise when Dean’s fist connects with his jaw. His head spins violently to the left and he breathes through the pain, before straightening to face Dean, his eyes wary.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Dean yells, his hands still balled into fists.
“I just went for a walk,” Sam says softly. He keeps his eyes locked on Dean’s, because if his brother is going to punch him again, his eyes are where he’ll see it first.
“Bullshit!” Dean snaps back, “Why’d you have your phone switched off, then?”
Sam stays silent and suddenly Dean is crowding into his personal space. He grabs a fist full of Sam’s shirt and shoves him back against the wall. Sam and the wall collide with a dull thud and Sam let’s out a small oof. His shoulder jars and pain shoots up and down his arm, but he doesn’t shove Dean back.
“Did you take the knife with you?” Dean’s hands pat him down expertly, feeling up underneath his jacket and down his legs. Sam knows that he’s earned this lack of trust; he deserves to be treated like this; so he waits patiently until Dean has satisfied himself that he doesn’t have Ruby’s knife on him before replying:
“No. I didn’t take the knife. I didn’t kill any demons. I didn’t hook up with any demons. I didn’t drink any demon blood. I just went for a walk.”
“So why’d you switch your phone off?”
Last year, Sam would’ve been angry by now. He would’ve been in Dean’s face, refusing to answer his questions, demanding his brother’s trust and respect. Now he knows that trust and respect are hard earned and easily lost. And earning them back again? That’s a long, painful process.
Dean regains Sam’s attention by punching him in the face again.
“I thought we were past all this!” he yells, “the lying, the sneaking around, the secrets. I can’t do this again, Sam!”
Sam takes a deep breath.
“I’m sorry, Dean-”
“Sorry don’t mean jack squat!”
“I know, I know. Sometimes…..I just….need….some time….for me. You know?”
Dean nods. “Yeah, that I get. But you leave a note; you leave your goddamn phone switched on. I came back and you were just gone. With all the shit we’ve got going on…that scared the hell outta me, Sammy. For all I knew, Lucifer’d jumped your bones and was walkin’ around in a Sammy suit, tryin’ to jump start the apocalypse.”
Sam inhales sharply.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I should’ve left you a note. I switched my cell phone off because the place I went to….they make you switch your phone off. They don’t want any distractions.”
“So you didn’t just go for a walk? You lied to me again.”
Sam wants to argue that he didn’t lie so much as fail to tell the whole truth. But a lie of omission is still a lie and besides, he knows that his intention was to deceive his brother, and he’s not supposed to be doing that anymore, not if he wants to repair their relationship. So he nods and lets his misery show clearly on his face.
“I’m sorry. I’m trying so hard…..” he sounds pathetic, even to himself.
Dean snorts. “It’s not that hard. Don’t sneak around, don’t keep secrets. I can’t trust you when you’re doing those things. Not now that….,” he stops himself abruptly and then locks eyes with Sam, “Not now that you’re an addict,” he finishes quietly.
Sam closes his eyes and then gestures vaguely towards the beds.
“Do you think we could….?”
Dean relinquishes his hold on Sam’s shirt and they go and sit on their respective beds, facing each other, knees almost touching.
“You’re right not to trust me,” Sam says eventually, “I don’t even trust myself. But….I am trying really hard here, Dean. I’ve learned my lesson. Not one drop of demon blood has passed my lips since…..well….since Tim and Reggie tried to force feed me a dose a few months back,” he pauses and looks searchingly at his brother, “I had it in my mouth Dean and I spat it out. Do you have any idea how hard that was? Because you’re right. I am an addict,” Sam takes a tremulous breath. It gets easier every time he says it, but saying it in front of Dean…that’s a huge step. “I don’t expect you to trust me,” he continues, “I know I need to earn that back. So if you want to know where I was tonight, then I’ll show you. Tomorrow….at eleven o’clock in the morning. Will you come with me?”
Dean manages a very Cas like penetrating stare. “Why can’t you just tell me?”
Sam shakes his head.
“I want you to see. Will you come?”
There’s a long, awkward silence and then finally, just when Sam’s giving up hope, Dean nods.
-X-
Dean raises an eyebrow when he realizes that they’re going to be walking, but he accompanies Sam out of the motel car park and down the sidewalk without comment. His eyebrows disappear into his hairline when St Mathew’s Church comes into view and when it becomes apparent that that’s where they’re headed he lets out a small, humorless laugh.
“You’re kidding?” his tone is deeply sarcastic, “You found God, did you? Maybe you could tell Cas where he is then, so that I can have my damn necklace back!”
Sam doesn’t bother to respond, simply leads his brother past the church and into the church hall, where a group of about eighteen people are quietly congregating. A platinum blonde woman with a nose ring and a tattoo of a snake wound around one arm hands Dean a pamphlet. He glances at it and freezes.
Sam stops next to a row of seats. He sees Dean standing frozen near the door and clears his throat. Dean’s head shoots up and he locks eyes with his brother. Sam inclines his head towards the seats and Dean looks almost panic-stricken, as if he’s thinking about turning tail and bolting out the door. Then he nods and edges forwards. He brushes past Sam and sits down, leaving Sam to sit on the end of the row. Sam relaxes, nods to a couple of people he has seen here before and tries to ignore Dean vibrating with tension next to him.
When everyone is finally seated, the woman with the nose ring and the snake tattoo makes her way to the front of the room and takes up position behind a microphone.
“Welcome,” she says, “to this morning’s meeting of the Colorado Springs Narcotics Anonymous fellowship. My name is Wendy and just like all of you, I am an addict. We’ll start things off this morning with the Serenity Prayer. Please feel free to join in.”
Sam hears Dean snort derisively so he tunes him out as he joins the group in reciting the short prayer about strength, courage and wisdom.
“Thank you,” Wendy smiles, “Who would like to come to the front today to share their story with us?”
Sam stands up.
“Sam!” Dean hisses, “What are you doing? Sit down!”
“Welcome,” Wendy smiles at him, “Come down to the front.”
There’s a smattering of applause as Sam makes his way to the front of the room. Wendy hands the microphone to him and he turns to face the group, his eyes finding Dean who has slouched low in his seat, arms tightly folded across his chest.
“Hi,” he says, and his voice booms and crackles through the speakers. He does an exaggerated frown and holds the microphone a little further away, “Hi,” he tries again, “that’s better! Okay. My name is Sam,” his eyes meet Dean’s, “And I’m an addict. My particular poison…..is probably irrelevant. Suffice to say I started using it to give me an edge; to help me to do my job better. But after that first hit those reasons didn’t really matter. Because honestly? I liked the feeling of power and control that using gave me.” Sam breaks eye contact with Dean and sees a lot of heads nodding in understanding. He smiles briefly and then seeks his brother’s eyes again. “I had a really messed up childhood. My Mom died in a house fire when I was a baby. My Dad….drank too much and dragged me and my brother all over the country while he fought his own personal demons. We rarely stayed in any one place for more than six months,” Sam pauses, “That’s not an excuse,” he says, “it’s just background information. I’ve lost a lot of important people in the last few years. More than that, I’ve lost my sense of self. I’ve had to question everything I thought I knew about who I was, what I was destined for, and I’ve been unhappy with a lot of the answers. One thing I do know for sure: the people who encouraged me to use, the assholes who lied to me and manipulated things and turned me and my brother against each other….they are not my friends. That’s a mistake I’m never gonna make again,” his eyes are still locked with Dean’s and Dean isn’t looking away; he’s listening now, focused completely on his brother. “Staying clean is hard. My brother doesn’t trust me anymore and that hurts. But I don’t blame him because, honestly? I don’t trust me anymore either. I hurt a lot of people. Like…. a lot,” Sam pauses for breath, “I try to stay away from situations where I might be tempted to use, but sometimes my work puts temptation within my reach and there’s nothing I can do about that. New shit seems to jump out of the woodwork and smack me down on a pretty regular basis, but I just have to keep getting up and soldiering on,” Sam smiles suddenly, “I used to have this book when I was a little kid. My brother used to read it to me. It was called The Little Engine Who Could. The Little Engine didn’t think he could make it, but he would chug up the hill going ‘I think I can, I think I can’ and somehow he would make it. That’s how I feel. I’m pretty much out of steam, I’m going up hill, and it’s hard. But if I just keep telling myself, ‘I think I can, I think I can,’ then maybe I’ll make it. Anyway. That’s it, I guess. Thanks for listening to me ramble.”
The group smiles and claps while Sam makes his way back to his seat. Dean stands up and pulls him into a hug and for a brief moment there’s no-one else in the room.
“C’mon,” Dean says gruffly, pulling away, “Sit your ass down Little Engine, we got a lot more to get through before this meeting ends.”
Sam raises an enquiring eyebrow and Dean shrugs.
“It’s not that different to AA,” he says, “And I’ve been to a few of their meetings over the years. It never really sticks. I just can’t get on board with this whole ‘higher power’ bullshit. I mean….I know God’s just another deadbeat Dad so how can I put myself in His hands?”
Sam doesn’t say anything. He’s not so sure that God is as disinterested as some of the angels would have them believe. He thinks it’s a fairly safe bet that it was God who pulled them out of Lucifer’s reach and into that airplane….and bestowed a miraculous detox on him in the process. But Dean has to work through his father issues in his own time.
They sit through the rest of the meeting in a companionable, tranquil silence, even staying for coffee and cookies at the end. Wendy gives Sam a white key tag and Dean tries not to laugh.
Later, they clean and oil all of the guns and then sharpen all of the knives and swords. Sam inventories the ritual supplies (because magick gives Dean the heebeejeebies) while Dean inventories the First Aid Kit. They have Chinese Take out for dinner and drink their way through a six pack. Dean has a bunch of newspapers in front of him and is looking, vaguely, for a Job.
“So what made you go to NA?” Dean asks out of the blue.
“Aside from the obvious fact that I’m an addict?”
Dean quirks a smile. “Yeah, apart from that.”
“When we were….taking some time apart….I met a girl,”
“That’s m’boy! Good for you, Sammy!”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We had dinner. We talked. She pegged me as an addict and I figured….booze, speed, heroin, demon blood, what does it matter? She talked me into going to an NA meeting with her. Since then, I’ve been trying to go to at least a couple of meetings a week, no matter where we are. I’m sorry I lied to you, man. I was,” Sam pauses, “kinda scared you’d freak.”
Dean is silent for a moment. “I didn’t know what you were gonna say. A lot of the crap with AA and NA…..it’s about honesty. Being honest with yourself; being honest with others. In your case….the truth…..‘Hello, my name is Sam Winchester, I got hooked on demon blood, started the apocalypse, and now Lucifer wants me to be his meat puppet…’ it’s kind of a one way ticket to the loony bin, you know?”
Sam hangs his head. “I can never make up for what I-”
Dean cuts him off with a wave. “Listening to you talk made me realize that you’re really not that different from any other addict. So let’s just hope we can ice the devil, because I really don’t like your chances with steps 8 and 9 if Lucifer takes charge of the planet.”
Sam huffs out a small humorless laugh. “Right, cuz that’s gonna be one hell of a long list,” he grimaces at his choice of phrase, “and how am I supposed to make amends to 7 billion people?”
Dean smiles sadly.
“I was proud of you today, Sammy,” he suddenly blurts, “Although,” he adds with a grin, “you’re way too gigantic to be the Little Engine. You’re more like Pete the Freight Engine!” He turns quickly back to the newspapers, and Sam feels a spark of hope that, just maybe, their relationship is not broken beyond repair.
“Ew! Hey, listen to this: Some girl in Alliance, Nebraska got attacked inside a locked house while she was babysitting. Something clawed right through her skull and raked out her brains! What d’you reckon? Sound like a job?”
Sam purses his lips and tilts his head, considering. “Could be,” he says, “it’s probably worth checking out.”
“Alliance it is then. We’ll leave in the morning.”
Dean gets up from the table and tosses Sam the tv remote. “See if you can find us something worth watching.”
He ambles across to his bed and stretches out on top of the covers, leaning back against the headboard. Sam channel hops until he finds a Police Academy movie. He listens to his brother’s laughter and smiles. Lucifer may well be walking the Earth, determined to bring about the End of Days, but if he and Dean are in sync again, then all is right with the world. And when the time comes and they have their inevitable showdown with the Devil, Sam will do whatever it takes to make amends to 7 billion people; no matter how hard; no matter the personal cost.
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, Sam learnt that the hard way. The road to redemption? That’s a long, hard, painful, uphill battle. Sam sighs and closes his eyes.
I think I can, I think can……..
~fin~
Total Words: 4,045
Genre(s): Gen; angst
Pairing(s): N/A
Rating: PG-13
Type: Prompt Fic…
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sigh. They’re Kripke’s….I’m just borrowing them ……for fun, not profit….
Spoilers: Up to 5.6
Warnings: Rated for language, adult themes, drug references, violence.
Summary: The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, Sam learnt that the hard way. The road to redemption? That’s a long, hard, painful, uphill battle.
A/N: This was written for the h/c challenge at ohsam.
The prompt (by cordelia_gray) was: “So there was this little interview in TV Guide with Jared and Jensen, and Jared said that Sam is his inspiration, because he takes so many hits and keeps on going. This is totally one of the things I love about Sam, too. Anything on this theme would be lovely, but particularly something set in early/mid S5, where Sam is trying to overcome his addiction and repair his relationship with Dean. Maybe he ends up going to NA meetings in between hunts?”
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Dean is quiet all the way back to the motel and that’s just fine with Sam because his shoulder hurts like a bitch and most of his focus is taken up with trying not to let any blood seep through his jacket and onto the Impala’s upholstery. Dean won’t forgive him for getting blood on his baby’s leather seats; he’s not big on forgiveness these days; at least not when it comes to Sam.
Sam shifts slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position and risks a sideways glance at his brother. Dean is fuming silently beside him and Sam knows that later his big brother is going to be spitting words like reckless, irresponsible, and careless at him. He probably deserves them.
He jars his shoulder getting out of the car and he can’t quite stifle his gasp of pain. Dean’s eyes narrow and, oh yeah; Sam knows what that look means; there’s going to be yelling, and lots of it, the minute the door to their motel room closes. Sam sighs and follows his brother’s stiff back across the car park and into Room 13 of the Starry Night Motel (Ceiling fans! Color TV!).
The décor is obscenely kitsch; ceramic plates painted with too-cute fawning kittens hang crooked on one (green) wall; psychedelic-patterned wallpaper in bubblegum pink is pasted onto another. Looking at it makes Sam nauseous; or maybe he just has a concussion.
Sam tries to slip inconspicuously into the bathroom, but it’s hard to be inconspicuous when you’re 6ft4.
“Where the fuck are you going?” Dean demands.
“Bathroom?”
Dean points at Sam’s bed.
“Sit down!”
“Dean-”
“Sit!”
Sam sits.
Dean paces.
“Dean-”
“Shut up! I haven’t even started yet! Do you have any idea what a stupid, dumb-ass move that was, throwing yourself at that thing? Do you have any fucking clue just how….how….”
“Reckless?” Sam supplies.
“Yes! Reckless. And….and….”
“Irresponsible?” Sam suggests.
Dean glowers.
“Goddamn it Sam! You could’ve been killed!”
“Dean?”
“What?”
“Could you maybe lecture and stitch?”
Dean stares for a minute and is suddenly by Sam’s side.
“Where?”
“Shoulder.”
Dean peels Sam’s jacket off and the sticky, almost black blood covering his brother’s upper arm has him grimacing. He pulls Sam’s over-shirt off as quickly as he can and then hauls ass out to the car for the First Aid Kit. He cuts Sam’s tee-shirt off him and surveys his brother’s wound.
“Shit, Sammy,” he says gruffly, “I can’t believe you let that bitch get her claws into you too!”
Sam merely grunts.
Dean swabs the wound with Holy Water. There’s no sizzle and burn and Dean’s relief is palpable.
“Good, good,” he mutters, “no supernatural infection.”
He meets Sam’s eyes.
“You want Nyquil or the good stuff?”
Sam holds out a hand for the Nyquil and chugs down three times the recommended dose while Dean pulls a sterilized needle out of a clean packet and threads it with dental floss.
Dean pours whiskey on the wound and shit! that does burn.
“You ready?”
Sam nods curtly and wishes he had something better to stare at than a kitten painted on a plate. The first stitch is always the worst and Sam stiffens reflexively.
“Relax,” Dean says softly and for just a moment Sam is twenty-two again with a brother who trusts and respects him. He wills himself to relax; counts his heartbeats, focuses on his breathing and tries not to remember all the times he had to stitch himself up because there was no-one else to do it.
Twenty minutes later the wound is closed, Dean has washed it off again with whiskey, and bandaged it.
“Thanks,” Sam says.
His brother merely grunts in response.
“I’ll pop it back now,” he says.
Sam grimaces.
Dean puts one hand on either side of his shoulder, careful to avoid his stitches.
“Okay,” he says, “On-” and he snaps Sam’s dislocated shoulder back into place before he has a chance to tense up.
“Fuck!” Sam yells.
“Anything else I should know about?” Dean asks.
“Concussion, maybe?” Sam mumbles, “I hit my head pretty hard.”
Dean does the how many fingers am I holding up thing, examines his pupils, asks him about nausea and pain and sensitivity to light and finally concludes that Sam will be okay. He pours himself a double shot of whiskey and then sits down on his own bed and stares at Sam.
“So,” he says, “Care to tell me what possessed you to throw yourself off a cliff and into the path of a Lamiae?”
Sam rolls his eyes, “It was a ledge, not a cliff.”
“Not really the point, Sam.”
Sam sighs.
“I was just doing my job. You were focused on getting the kids out of that cave. It didn’t look like you’d heard her sneaking up on you.”
Dean huffs. “Oh, so we’re back to that I’m a better hunter than you crap, are we?”
Sam shakes his head. “No. We’re back to that I’m your brother and I’ve got your back crap.”
Dean puts a hand over his face.
“You could’ve been killed, Sammy.”
Sam is silent for a moment and then he says it:
“Yeah? Well better me than you. In case you’ve forgotten, I didn’t cope so well the last time you died.”
Dean sags visibly and Sam could kick himself.
“Not your fault,” he says, “My choices; my mistakes.”
“Yeah,” Dean replies after a moment, “But I left you alone to make them.”
“They were still my choices; my mistakes. I’m an adult, Dean; you’re not responsible for my bad decisions.”
Dean nods.
“I’m gonna take a shower. You should get some sleep.”
Sam recognizes a dismissal when he hears one; he was raised by John Winchester after all.
He lies down on top of his blankets, closes his eyes and listens to the soothing sound of the shower running, followed shortly after by the calming rhythms of his brother moving around the room, choosing clothes, getting dressed. When Dean stops next to his bed he considers feigning sleep, but Dean always could tell when he was just pretending and in light of, well, everything, honesty is definitely the best policy with Dean at the moment. So Sam opens his eyes and looks up at his brother.
“You okay?” Dean asks.
“Fine. Just sleepy.”
Dean nods.
“I’m gonna go out.” His eyes are sparkling and his face lights up with an impish grin, “That bar with the moose head over the door? Gonna go there for a beer.”
Sam grins.
“The one with the moose….?” he says, pretending confusion, “Oh! You mean the one with the red-headed barmaid?”
Dean looks smug. “She gets off at ten. Don’t wait up, Sammy.”
Sam waits until the Impala has purred out of the motel car park and then gets to his feet. Tucked away in amongst his clean underwear (where Dean will never look) is a piece of paper, folded very small. He unfolds it and studies the information carefully, looking for a place close by that has something at a suitable time.
He printed this out a week ago. Dean had left him alone at the library to do research while he went to re-interview an attractive slender brunette who thought she’d maybe seen something.
Last year, Sam would have used Dean’s absence to hook up with Ruby; get a fresh, warm dose. It bothers him that he’s still doing things behind his brother’s back, but he’s just not ready to share this yet.
Sam is pleased to find something which starts in half an hour and is within walking distance of the motel. He pulls on some clean clothes, breathing around the pain this causes his shoulder, then takes a final look around the room before leaving quietly.
-X-
Sam is feeling relaxed, positive and in control; right up until he spots the Impala parked outside their motel room. What happened to: ‘Don’t wait up, Sammy’? He stutters to a halt, takes several deep, calming breaths and then takes his cell phone out of his pocket and switches it back on. He has eight missed calls from Dean. And when he checks his voicemail? Yeah….Dean’s pissed.
Sam walks to their door like a man walking to the gallows. He’s reaching forwards with their room key when the door is abruptly snatched open. Dean grabs his arm and hauls him into the room, throwing him so hard that he stumbles. Sam regains his balance quickly and whirls to face his very angry brother.
He’s expecting it, so it doesn’t come as a surprise when Dean’s fist connects with his jaw. His head spins violently to the left and he breathes through the pain, before straightening to face Dean, his eyes wary.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Dean yells, his hands still balled into fists.
“I just went for a walk,” Sam says softly. He keeps his eyes locked on Dean’s, because if his brother is going to punch him again, his eyes are where he’ll see it first.
“Bullshit!” Dean snaps back, “Why’d you have your phone switched off, then?”
Sam stays silent and suddenly Dean is crowding into his personal space. He grabs a fist full of Sam’s shirt and shoves him back against the wall. Sam and the wall collide with a dull thud and Sam let’s out a small oof. His shoulder jars and pain shoots up and down his arm, but he doesn’t shove Dean back.
“Did you take the knife with you?” Dean’s hands pat him down expertly, feeling up underneath his jacket and down his legs. Sam knows that he’s earned this lack of trust; he deserves to be treated like this; so he waits patiently until Dean has satisfied himself that he doesn’t have Ruby’s knife on him before replying:
“No. I didn’t take the knife. I didn’t kill any demons. I didn’t hook up with any demons. I didn’t drink any demon blood. I just went for a walk.”
“So why’d you switch your phone off?”
Last year, Sam would’ve been angry by now. He would’ve been in Dean’s face, refusing to answer his questions, demanding his brother’s trust and respect. Now he knows that trust and respect are hard earned and easily lost. And earning them back again? That’s a long, painful process.
Dean regains Sam’s attention by punching him in the face again.
“I thought we were past all this!” he yells, “the lying, the sneaking around, the secrets. I can’t do this again, Sam!”
Sam takes a deep breath.
“I’m sorry, Dean-”
“Sorry don’t mean jack squat!”
“I know, I know. Sometimes…..I just….need….some time….for me. You know?”
Dean nods. “Yeah, that I get. But you leave a note; you leave your goddamn phone switched on. I came back and you were just gone. With all the shit we’ve got going on…that scared the hell outta me, Sammy. For all I knew, Lucifer’d jumped your bones and was walkin’ around in a Sammy suit, tryin’ to jump start the apocalypse.”
Sam inhales sharply.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I should’ve left you a note. I switched my cell phone off because the place I went to….they make you switch your phone off. They don’t want any distractions.”
“So you didn’t just go for a walk? You lied to me again.”
Sam wants to argue that he didn’t lie so much as fail to tell the whole truth. But a lie of omission is still a lie and besides, he knows that his intention was to deceive his brother, and he’s not supposed to be doing that anymore, not if he wants to repair their relationship. So he nods and lets his misery show clearly on his face.
“I’m sorry. I’m trying so hard…..” he sounds pathetic, even to himself.
Dean snorts. “It’s not that hard. Don’t sneak around, don’t keep secrets. I can’t trust you when you’re doing those things. Not now that….,” he stops himself abruptly and then locks eyes with Sam, “Not now that you’re an addict,” he finishes quietly.
Sam closes his eyes and then gestures vaguely towards the beds.
“Do you think we could….?”
Dean relinquishes his hold on Sam’s shirt and they go and sit on their respective beds, facing each other, knees almost touching.
“You’re right not to trust me,” Sam says eventually, “I don’t even trust myself. But….I am trying really hard here, Dean. I’ve learned my lesson. Not one drop of demon blood has passed my lips since…..well….since Tim and Reggie tried to force feed me a dose a few months back,” he pauses and looks searchingly at his brother, “I had it in my mouth Dean and I spat it out. Do you have any idea how hard that was? Because you’re right. I am an addict,” Sam takes a tremulous breath. It gets easier every time he says it, but saying it in front of Dean…that’s a huge step. “I don’t expect you to trust me,” he continues, “I know I need to earn that back. So if you want to know where I was tonight, then I’ll show you. Tomorrow….at eleven o’clock in the morning. Will you come with me?”
Dean manages a very Cas like penetrating stare. “Why can’t you just tell me?”
Sam shakes his head.
“I want you to see. Will you come?”
There’s a long, awkward silence and then finally, just when Sam’s giving up hope, Dean nods.
-X-
Dean raises an eyebrow when he realizes that they’re going to be walking, but he accompanies Sam out of the motel car park and down the sidewalk without comment. His eyebrows disappear into his hairline when St Mathew’s Church comes into view and when it becomes apparent that that’s where they’re headed he lets out a small, humorless laugh.
“You’re kidding?” his tone is deeply sarcastic, “You found God, did you? Maybe you could tell Cas where he is then, so that I can have my damn necklace back!”
Sam doesn’t bother to respond, simply leads his brother past the church and into the church hall, where a group of about eighteen people are quietly congregating. A platinum blonde woman with a nose ring and a tattoo of a snake wound around one arm hands Dean a pamphlet. He glances at it and freezes.
Sam stops next to a row of seats. He sees Dean standing frozen near the door and clears his throat. Dean’s head shoots up and he locks eyes with his brother. Sam inclines his head towards the seats and Dean looks almost panic-stricken, as if he’s thinking about turning tail and bolting out the door. Then he nods and edges forwards. He brushes past Sam and sits down, leaving Sam to sit on the end of the row. Sam relaxes, nods to a couple of people he has seen here before and tries to ignore Dean vibrating with tension next to him.
When everyone is finally seated, the woman with the nose ring and the snake tattoo makes her way to the front of the room and takes up position behind a microphone.
“Welcome,” she says, “to this morning’s meeting of the Colorado Springs Narcotics Anonymous fellowship. My name is Wendy and just like all of you, I am an addict. We’ll start things off this morning with the Serenity Prayer. Please feel free to join in.”
Sam hears Dean snort derisively so he tunes him out as he joins the group in reciting the short prayer about strength, courage and wisdom.
“Thank you,” Wendy smiles, “Who would like to come to the front today to share their story with us?”
Sam stands up.
“Sam!” Dean hisses, “What are you doing? Sit down!”
“Welcome,” Wendy smiles at him, “Come down to the front.”
There’s a smattering of applause as Sam makes his way to the front of the room. Wendy hands the microphone to him and he turns to face the group, his eyes finding Dean who has slouched low in his seat, arms tightly folded across his chest.
“Hi,” he says, and his voice booms and crackles through the speakers. He does an exaggerated frown and holds the microphone a little further away, “Hi,” he tries again, “that’s better! Okay. My name is Sam,” his eyes meet Dean’s, “And I’m an addict. My particular poison…..is probably irrelevant. Suffice to say I started using it to give me an edge; to help me to do my job better. But after that first hit those reasons didn’t really matter. Because honestly? I liked the feeling of power and control that using gave me.” Sam breaks eye contact with Dean and sees a lot of heads nodding in understanding. He smiles briefly and then seeks his brother’s eyes again. “I had a really messed up childhood. My Mom died in a house fire when I was a baby. My Dad….drank too much and dragged me and my brother all over the country while he fought his own personal demons. We rarely stayed in any one place for more than six months,” Sam pauses, “That’s not an excuse,” he says, “it’s just background information. I’ve lost a lot of important people in the last few years. More than that, I’ve lost my sense of self. I’ve had to question everything I thought I knew about who I was, what I was destined for, and I’ve been unhappy with a lot of the answers. One thing I do know for sure: the people who encouraged me to use, the assholes who lied to me and manipulated things and turned me and my brother against each other….they are not my friends. That’s a mistake I’m never gonna make again,” his eyes are still locked with Dean’s and Dean isn’t looking away; he’s listening now, focused completely on his brother. “Staying clean is hard. My brother doesn’t trust me anymore and that hurts. But I don’t blame him because, honestly? I don’t trust me anymore either. I hurt a lot of people. Like…. a lot,” Sam pauses for breath, “I try to stay away from situations where I might be tempted to use, but sometimes my work puts temptation within my reach and there’s nothing I can do about that. New shit seems to jump out of the woodwork and smack me down on a pretty regular basis, but I just have to keep getting up and soldiering on,” Sam smiles suddenly, “I used to have this book when I was a little kid. My brother used to read it to me. It was called The Little Engine Who Could. The Little Engine didn’t think he could make it, but he would chug up the hill going ‘I think I can, I think I can’ and somehow he would make it. That’s how I feel. I’m pretty much out of steam, I’m going up hill, and it’s hard. But if I just keep telling myself, ‘I think I can, I think I can,’ then maybe I’ll make it. Anyway. That’s it, I guess. Thanks for listening to me ramble.”
The group smiles and claps while Sam makes his way back to his seat. Dean stands up and pulls him into a hug and for a brief moment there’s no-one else in the room.
“C’mon,” Dean says gruffly, pulling away, “Sit your ass down Little Engine, we got a lot more to get through before this meeting ends.”
Sam raises an enquiring eyebrow and Dean shrugs.
“It’s not that different to AA,” he says, “And I’ve been to a few of their meetings over the years. It never really sticks. I just can’t get on board with this whole ‘higher power’ bullshit. I mean….I know God’s just another deadbeat Dad so how can I put myself in His hands?”
Sam doesn’t say anything. He’s not so sure that God is as disinterested as some of the angels would have them believe. He thinks it’s a fairly safe bet that it was God who pulled them out of Lucifer’s reach and into that airplane….and bestowed a miraculous detox on him in the process. But Dean has to work through his father issues in his own time.
They sit through the rest of the meeting in a companionable, tranquil silence, even staying for coffee and cookies at the end. Wendy gives Sam a white key tag and Dean tries not to laugh.
Later, they clean and oil all of the guns and then sharpen all of the knives and swords. Sam inventories the ritual supplies (because magick gives Dean the heebeejeebies) while Dean inventories the First Aid Kit. They have Chinese Take out for dinner and drink their way through a six pack. Dean has a bunch of newspapers in front of him and is looking, vaguely, for a Job.
“So what made you go to NA?” Dean asks out of the blue.
“Aside from the obvious fact that I’m an addict?”
Dean quirks a smile. “Yeah, apart from that.”
“When we were….taking some time apart….I met a girl,”
“That’s m’boy! Good for you, Sammy!”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We had dinner. We talked. She pegged me as an addict and I figured….booze, speed, heroin, demon blood, what does it matter? She talked me into going to an NA meeting with her. Since then, I’ve been trying to go to at least a couple of meetings a week, no matter where we are. I’m sorry I lied to you, man. I was,” Sam pauses, “kinda scared you’d freak.”
Dean is silent for a moment. “I didn’t know what you were gonna say. A lot of the crap with AA and NA…..it’s about honesty. Being honest with yourself; being honest with others. In your case….the truth…..‘Hello, my name is Sam Winchester, I got hooked on demon blood, started the apocalypse, and now Lucifer wants me to be his meat puppet…’ it’s kind of a one way ticket to the loony bin, you know?”
Sam hangs his head. “I can never make up for what I-”
Dean cuts him off with a wave. “Listening to you talk made me realize that you’re really not that different from any other addict. So let’s just hope we can ice the devil, because I really don’t like your chances with steps 8 and 9 if Lucifer takes charge of the planet.”
Sam huffs out a small humorless laugh. “Right, cuz that’s gonna be one hell of a long list,” he grimaces at his choice of phrase, “and how am I supposed to make amends to 7 billion people?”
Dean smiles sadly.
“I was proud of you today, Sammy,” he suddenly blurts, “Although,” he adds with a grin, “you’re way too gigantic to be the Little Engine. You’re more like Pete the Freight Engine!” He turns quickly back to the newspapers, and Sam feels a spark of hope that, just maybe, their relationship is not broken beyond repair.
“Ew! Hey, listen to this: Some girl in Alliance, Nebraska got attacked inside a locked house while she was babysitting. Something clawed right through her skull and raked out her brains! What d’you reckon? Sound like a job?”
Sam purses his lips and tilts his head, considering. “Could be,” he says, “it’s probably worth checking out.”
“Alliance it is then. We’ll leave in the morning.”
Dean gets up from the table and tosses Sam the tv remote. “See if you can find us something worth watching.”
He ambles across to his bed and stretches out on top of the covers, leaning back against the headboard. Sam channel hops until he finds a Police Academy movie. He listens to his brother’s laughter and smiles. Lucifer may well be walking the Earth, determined to bring about the End of Days, but if he and Dean are in sync again, then all is right with the world. And when the time comes and they have their inevitable showdown with the Devil, Sam will do whatever it takes to make amends to 7 billion people; no matter how hard; no matter the personal cost.
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, Sam learnt that the hard way. The road to redemption? That’s a long, hard, painful, uphill battle. Sam sighs and closes his eyes.
I think I can, I think can……..
~fin~