Fic: Last Hope of a Desperate Man (Week Two) [SPN]
Title: Last Hope of a Desperate Man ('Week Two')
Author: Co-written by strgazr04 and sameuspegasus
Rating: PG
Genre: SPN Gen. Angst, H/C
Word count: 4,678
Author's notes: Follows the other fics in the hair!verse: A Sensitive Secret and Dean Winchester - The Epitome of Awesome. Takes place during the "Week One... Week Two... Week Three" montage at the beginning of 7x11 Adventures in Babysitting. Spoilers for 7x10 Death's Door. Sam's POV.
Summary: Almost two weeks after Bobby's death, Dean has become completely unresponsive. He's not eating, not talking, not even moving off of the sofa in Rufus' cabin never mind showering and doing his hair like usual. Sam knows this is bad, but he's going to bring Dean back from the edge. Because their brothers. And they're all they have left.
The thing about Dean is that he has great hair. He gets $200 haircuts and spends $79.99 a tub on the gunk he uses to spike it up. He spends half an hour in the bathroom every morning making sure it’s perfect. He’ll spend a day nailing zombies back into their coffins and finish it without a hair out of place. He can spend a night tossing and turning shaking off nightmares or slumped sideways on a sofa, passed out from too much whiskey, and he’ll wake up with a beautifully tousled bed-head that would make a Hollywood hairstylist weep with jealousy. In a coma? Perfect hair. Tied to a chair by a murderous fellow hunter? Perfect hair. Dean has come back from the dead with his hair precisely and artfully styled. Multiple times.
Dean is sitting motionless on the sofa, blank eyes staring at nothing. He’s like a figure carved from stone. Like an empty shell. Like a dead man.
Dean will deny it, but he’s proud of the way he looks. “I’m the handsome one,” he says like he’s joking, but he spends an hour in the bathroom before he goes out, carefully picking clothes that make him look like he doesn’t care. Half an hour is spent washing and combing and twisting his fingers through his hair until it is exactly how he wants it. Dean thinks the girls invite him home because of the way his hair frames his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his cheekbones and showing off his eyes. They don’t. The reason they invite him home has very little to do with what he looks like, most of the time.
Dean is sitting motionless on the sofa, staring blankly at nothing. There’s a nearly-empty whiskey bottle at his elbow. A full plate of food sits untouched in front of him, long since gone cold. Sam is angry at his brother. He’s trying not to be, but he is. It’s like an everlasting candle inside him, and he just can’t get it to go out. Why does Dean get to shut down? It’s like he thinks he’s the only one who’s hurting. Like Sam doesn’t feel Bobby’s absence just as much. Like Sam is standing on solid ground.
Lucifer is sitting next to Dean on the beaten-up sofa. He’s reclining, legs crossed at the ankles, feet resting on the coffee table, dirty soles about an inch from Dean’s uneaten meal. He smirks at Sam, saying, “But you’re not hurting like Dean is, Sammy. Because you don’t care. You’re so much better than that. So much… more than human.” He sneers the word ‘human’, making it an insult worse than ‘cockroach’ or ‘pig’ or ‘slime’.
Sam wants to throw something at Lucifer, wants to yell at Dean for not reacting, not throwing him off the couch. Then he remembers Lucifer’s not really there and turns away, taking Dean’s cold dinner back to the kitchen. He ignores the little part of himself that is traitorously agreeing with his hallucination. He doesn’t care. Not like Dean. He’s sad about Bobby. He’s sad about Cas. But not like Dean. Cas had been Sam’s friend, but Dean had trusted him with everything he had. Sam knew Dean told Cas stuff he would never tell Sam because he didn’t want to look weak. For Dean, that was the equivalent to letting someone shoot you, as long as he promised to patch you up afterwards. And Bobby - Sam had loved Bobby. Bobby was like an uncle to him. But Bobby was like a father to Dean.
Dean is sitting motionless on the sofa, staring blankly at nothing. His face is pale. He hasn’t eaten in two days.
Sam doesn’t know what to do.
Dean’s hair is unwashed. It’s greasy and dull, flattened and messy, weighed down by three-day-old pomade. Sam is reminded forcibly of those terrifying days in the hospital after the rawhead and the electrocution. The time Dean’s heart was beating slower and weaker by the day, and the too frequent ticks of the clock were taking him closer and closer to death. But even then, waiting for the reaper, Dean could still smile.
It hits Sam like a sucker punch to the chest, as he’s standing in the kitchen, watching his brother stare at nothing. Dean isn’t being selfish. Dean doesn’t think Sam doesn’t care. He doesn’t think that Sam’s okay. Dean’s heart is broken. It’s been fracturing for years, and now it’s finally shattered. This time, it’s going to take more than a preacher’s wife binding a reaper to bring him back to life.
It's going to take Sam. And Sam will have to give all he has to do it too. Not that he minds. Not that he thought of giving anything less anyway. Sam is always 100 percent in for his brother, just like Dean is for him. Normally it's Dean looking after Sam. That's just how it's always been. Dean might be gushing blood like a fire hose, but he’ll still insist he’s fine. Any offer of affection, or God forbid comfort, will be met with a glare, and if he’s physically capable of it, a punch. Sam won't let that happen this time. Though, in the back of his mind he can't help but fear the possibility, the probability that Dean won't resist at all.
Sam swallows down the thick thump in his throat and approaches his brother. He sits on the coffee table in Rufus' living room across from Dean on the sofa, knees brushing. It's a familiar position, almost habitual. Sam doesn't really think about why he does it. He just does because Dean always has. They always sit close, heads bent toward each other when discussing something important, something meaningful.
He links his hands between his knees. "Dean, just talk to me. Look, I know you hate these chick flick moments or whatever, but this is different. It...It's Bobby, man. I..." He runs a hand through his hair. "I know you're hurting. I can see you're hurting. Please. Talk to me. I'm here, Dean. I'm right here." Frowning, Sam ducks his head trying to catch Dean's gaze. What he sees makes his stomach drop. Dean's eyes look dead. There is nothing there. No emotion, no thought, no life. They are simply blank as Dean stares off at nothing. Sam's never seen his brother look like this, not even after Dad died. It terrifies him. Dean's eyes are always the first thing Sam looks at. Sam’s always been able to have whole conversations with his brother, without a word being spoken. Dean’s never been able to keep what he’s feeling out of his eyes. There was warmth there, once upon a time. Shadows, since hell. Now there is nothing and Sam doesn't know how to read that. Dean has cut himself off from the entire world, including Sammy. And that is a first. Even when they had no one, they always had each other.
What am I supposed to do?, Sam wonders desperately. What am I supposed to do?! He itches to throw a chair or something just then. But what would that solve? Not knowing what else to try, Sam keeps talking.
"I know Bobby meant so much to you, Dean. Probably more than he did to me. Much more. So now this is like losing another dad all over again. I wish I could fix it, change this, all of this somehow."
"Oh come on, Sammy." Lucifer butts in. "You know you can. Go find another pretty crossroads demon. Make a deal. Then you can come back into the pit and play with me!" He rubs his hands together at the thought. "I'm sure Dean would thank you for it. Bringing his second daddy back and all..."
Sam tries to block him out. Focus on Dean. He's more important. "Dean? De? Please, say something. Anything." He snorts wearily. "Would you believe that I kinda miss the sound of your annoying voice? I know, I know. I'm such a girl right?" He smirks a little, looking at Dean for a response. His brother doesn’t even blink. Sam feels panic rise at the sight of his too-still brother and puts his hand on Dean's chest just to be sure he’s breathing. Dean breathes in deep and lets out a soft sigh, blinking. Sam jumps and yanks his hand back as if burned. "Dean?" For a second, Dean’s eyes seem to focus, holding his gaze. "Dean?" Nothing. Just false hope. "Damn it, Dean..." Sam sighs, shoulders drooping.
Dean's stomach grumbles loudly, almost painfully. "I'mma make you some grilled cheese, alright? And this time you're gonna eat it." He insists, heading back to the kitchen. But by the time he returns, Dean is passed out on the sofa in the same position he's been in for days. Sam sets the plate of food down and arranges his brother to lie on the sofa comfortably. He covers him with a blanket, smoothing it over Dean's legs and chest. Dean sighs again and rolls toward Sam, who freezes. Wearily shuffling to the armchair beside Dean’s feet, Sam watches his brother sleep until he can’t keep his eyes open any longer. He sleeps fitfully, having nightmare after nightmare of Dean simply wasting away as he watches, helpless.
The next morning, Sam is even more determined. If Dean wouldn't talk, he'd at least get a shower today. "Alright, dude. You reek. I'm calling it. You'd never let it get this bad if you were in your right mind." He talks just to hear himself instead of the quiet, instead of Lucifer. "Come on, Dean." He tugs the abandoned blanket from his brother's lap. No response. He tries tugging on Dean's arm to stand him up. Still nothing. "Man, are you seriously going to make me carry you? Do you know how much blackmail that'll be later?" Dean doesn't seem to notice or care. So, Sam slings Dean's arm over his shoulders and grips onto the belt loop of Dean's jeans. "Aw man, you really do stink." He complains, levering Dean up to a standing position. The touch seems to register though. Whether it's simply instinct or actual awareness, Sam's not sure. He goes with it though. Dean stumbles along as they head to the bathroom.
Dean doesn’t fight him off. Doesn’t swear at him or glare or tell him he’s fine. There’s no ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’ jokes about the way Sam is manhandling him. Sam doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that thought. Something hurts deep in his chest.
Sam bathes his brother in water that’s not hot enough to burn and not deep enough to drown in. There’s a lump in his throat and a burning sensation behind his eyes when he thinks about the implications of having to check these things, and when he sees the toll Dean’s lack of appetite is having on his body. Sam shouldn’t be able to count his brother’s ribs. He pushes the thoughts back and concentrates on shampooing Dean’s hair, washing out days of grease and built-up hair product. Dean leans into Sam’s touch as Sam massages the shampoo into his hair. A spark of hope flickers.
The spark threatens to die five minutes later, when Sam is guiding Dean’s arms into his old hoodie, dressing his big brother like a child.
With Dean sitting on the bed, Sam uses a towel to ruffle Dean's hair dry. He chuckles in surprise when Dean practically starts purring. "You and your hair, dude. Such a friggen hedonist." He smiles, rolling his eyes. He doesn't stop though. Sam runs his hand over Dean's hair telling himself he's just making sure it was dry. Can't have Dean catching a cold on his watch and all. The tiny, relaxed smile on Dean's face tugs at Sam's heart. He looks all of six years old in the baggy sweats with his hair falling over his forehead, lighter in color - almost blond - without the pomade in it. "L-Let's get us some food, huh?" Sam swallows hard, once again having to all but drag Dean to his feet and out of the room. He must have taken too long cooking because Dean is completely unresponsive again when Sam returns, zoned out from the world.
"Dean?" He kneels in front of Dean, putting the plate of toast down. "Dean, come on man. Just a little bit of food ok? You need to eat. Dean? You hearin' me, dude?" Sam grabs Dean's knee and shakes it, heart pounding. No, no, no. I just started to get you back! "Dean!" It jars Dean slightly but not enough. Sam cups his hand on the back of Dean's neck and turns his face until their eyes meet. "Ok how about just some Gatorade then alright? Here, I put a straw in it. Just drink." He guides the straw to Dean's lips, holding the bottle with one hand and rubbing circles with the thumb of the hand still on Dean's nape. He smiles encouragingly when Dean actually looks at him. At least Dean is getting something into his stomach. Sam abandons the toast, suddenly feeling sick at the idea of possibly having to hand feed his brother.
Dean looks exhausted already, his eyes beginning to droop. Sam doesn't want to leave him, afraid he'll zone out again. Instead, he climbs onto the sofa sitting so they are pressed knee to hip. Another habit. Another thing he's unconsciously picked up for Dean. Oddly enough, it seems to help though. Dean leans into him even more as he yawns. Sam flips on the TV to distract himself from Lucifer and the otherwise silent small cabin. He makes random comments about whatever show is on to keep Dean engaged until the weight against his side becomes even heavier. Dean has fallen asleep on him. Once again, he looks so young, his face smoothed out with sleep. Sam swallows hard as he pulls the blanket up over him, tightening the arm he has around Dean's shoulders. "It's gonna be ok, Dean. You and me. We're gonna be ok."
***
They continue like this over the next three days. Sam takes care of his brother, drawing him out a little more each time. Dean still hasn't said a word, but Sam is confident that he will. Dean's still in there. Sometimes he'll get a certain look. Sometimes he'll get a smile. Each time just a little bit more lucid than the last.
Sam just can't believe that he hasn't put it all together sooner. Touch. That's what was working. Not talking about their issues, but something as simple and as primal as touch. It all makes sense now. Sam can recall so many hugs or slaps on the back or rufflings of his hair when he was younger. Then again, Dean initiated each and every one of those moments. Even to this day. Sam's not sure whether to feel guilty about that or not. It's not that he never tries to display the mutual love and affection he has for his brother. Dean just shoves him off or does something to distract him completely. He's good at that. Even when sick as a dog. Just like after the rawhead.
"Dean just rest on the bed. I'll draw you a bath ok?" Sam says, trying to help.
"Like hell you will." Dean tries to argue but it barely comes out as more than a rasp. He rubs at his chest, over his weakened heart when Sam isn't looking. "I'm taking a shower, Sam. I'm not an invalid or something. I can handle taking a damn-" He wheezes, the words having stolen his breath.
Sam is there in an instant. "Shit, Dean. M'sorry. Just take it easy. Slow breaths. In... Out... Good. Just like that." He rubs Dean's back, supporting his weight in his arms. It doesn't last though. The minute Dean is strong enough, he pushes Sam away.
"M'fine Sam, damn it." He grumbles, so not fine. He slowly stands and shuffles the four feet into the motel bathroom, ignoring Sam's attempts to help again. He slams the door shut behind him.
The bedsprings creak under Sam's weight as he sits heavily on the bed farthest from the door, head in his hands. Dean must have heard it though because after a minute or two the bathroom door opens just a crack. Sam's lips quirk in a small smile. He couldn't help his hovering. And they both knew Dean would do the same if the situation had been the other way around.
The water in the shower has been off for a few minutes now, Dean having finished his shower, when Sam hears a moan and a soft thud. He's on his feet barging into the bathroom immediately. "Dean!?" He finds Dean steadying himself against the bathroom counter while his other hand was pinching the bridge of his nose. "You ok? What happened? What hurts?"
Dean sighs, too tired to bother arguing. "My head. Just got lightheaded, Sam. M'ok."
"That's not ok. You were just standing here and got dizzy? Maybe we should take you back to the hospital or-"
"What? No. I had my arms raised for a minute and then I got dizzy."
"Dean, the doctor told you! You're not supposed to raise your arms above your head with a weak heart. S'not good for the circulation. Your heart's working hard enough as it is and-" He cuts off his rant with a frown. "Why did you have your arms up anyway?"
Dean looks caught for a moment before he covers it up. "What? Nothing, was just drying my hair. What's it to you?"
Sam glances at the towels left abandoned on the bathroom floor except for the one around Dean's waist. Weird. He shrugs. "I can help you if you want." He offers, now noticing how his brother's hair looked oddly flat and limp.
Dean just snorts. "Yeah, okay. Like I'm gonna trust you anywhere near my hair. Have you looked in the mirror, dude?" He brushes passed Sam to go get dressed. Spotting the cosy-looking zip-up hoodie on the bed, he pulls it back on.
Sam glances at the mirror and frowns. "You've got less hair than I do. I'm sure it wouldn't be that hard to-"
"I am not playing hairdresser with you, Samantha. If you really want to braid hair, I'll buy you another Sapphire Barbie ok?" He smirks.
"Hilarious." Sam deadpans, cleaning up the mess in the bathroom. A sad smile forms on his face at the memory of Christmas back in '91. He's only just gotten his brother back and now he is facing the possibility of never spending another holiday together. Even one that only involves Funyuns and stolen chick presents.
As if somehow sensing the change in his brother's mood, Dean calls to Sam. "Hey, Human Furnace. I'm freezing over here. Come out here and watch this movie with me before my nuts freeze off."
Sam smiles, hiding it with a roll of his eyes as he exits the bathroom. "Do you really need to be so crude?"
Dean looks contemplative, chin wrinkling slightly as he looks up to the sky in thought then back to Sam. "Yup." He smirks.
When Sam wakes up, Dean is staring at nothing again. It’s like having a paralysed limb. His brother is there, but he’s not, and it hurts the most when Sam wakes up and the contrast between memories and reality is starkest.
Dean makes no move to get dressed. He won’t eat the breakfast Sam brings him. Just sits on the edge of his bed and stares at the dry toast like he doesn’t recognise it.
Sam goes into the bathroom and trashes it in frustration. Shampoo splatters on the floor as he flings the open bottle across the room. He rips the shower curtain down. Soap and razors and spare ammunition crash into the wall. Sam slams his fist into the mirror. A spider web of cracks appears, but it doesn’t break.
Outside in the bedroom, Dean doesn't even flinch.
Sam tries to swallow down a sob as he sinks down onto the tile floor. He's never felt so alone in his life. There is no one left. And if he lost Dean too...
“You’ve still got me, Sammy,” Lucifer says, friendly and loyal as always, “You’ll always have me.”
For a second Sam can’t remember if he’s in hell or not.
"What do I do?" He chokes out, tears running down his face. "What the hell do I do now?" Sam sits there for what feels like hours. The guilt starts to eat at him. He needs to get up. Dean needs him to get up. So he does. Sniffling, he starts picking everything up. Everything is pretty much back in order when he spots a bottle wedged between the tub and the bottom of the toilet. Crouching down, he picks it up. The tub of Dean's pomade.
"I can't believe it." Dean mutters, laying dejectedly on the motel bed, his back against the headboard as he looks down as his casted hands. "My own Baby betrayed me."
"She- It didn't betray you, Dean." Sam says for what feels like the twentieth time. "The car was taken over by a spirit. That's what slammed the trunk down on your hands. Hey, I'm just glad your head wasn't under it, looking over the weapons at the time. This could'a been so much worse."
Two weeks ago, they had been taking care of a job in an old abandoned house that was in the middle of being renovated, much to the spirit's dismay. Just as they were about to grab their weapons to go in, disaster struck. Dean's been moaning and groaning about it ever since. Of all the things to happen, this is probably one of the worst in Dean's opinion. Now he was stuck dependent on Sam and Sam knew he hated it. At first Sam had tried to be helpful, offering whatever he could. That only seemed to piss Dean off more. It took Sam less than 48 hours to learn that it was better to wait for Dean to come to him. And it'll happen. Usually after a rather painful struggle of Dean trying to do things like dress or eat on his own with shattered fingers, but eventually it happens.
Like now.
"Hey Sam?" Dean calls quietly.
"Yeah?" Sam responds, feigning interest in whatever was on his laptop screen knowing Dean will simply think it's research to break his crossroads deal.
Dean sighs. "I think I need another shower."
"Well it has been almost three days..." Sam tries to hide his smirk. From Dean's glare he can tell he's failed.
"Look, are you gonna help me or not?" Dean snaps. At least he has the decency to look contrite when Sam comes to his aid without a word of complaint.
Twenty minutes later, and a few resignedly muttered curse words from Dean, he is all clean again and feels much better. One glance in the mirror however has him frowning. Sam pretends not to notice. He's been waiting for this since the minute he saw the x-rays of Dean's broken hands. Ever since his brother came clean about his obsession with his hair, Dean's been a lot less uptight and secretive about the whole thing. Sam's just glad his brother feels like he can be himself around him. All Sam wanted was for his brother to be happy. And if that included a way for Dean to reign in some control over the choices in his own life and take the time to focus on himself for once, then all the better. So now, Sam just waits, knowing this has been bothering Dean for the past two weeks.
Dean sighs. "I'm gonna ask you to do something very, very important. You must listen to my directions explicitly and once this is over, we never speak of it again. Understood?" He asked seriously.
"I swear." Sam nodded earnestly.
Dean seems to gauge his expression for a moment before nodding once. "Alright grab that tub of pomade. Open it up and put a dime sized amount on your fingers." He instructs, sitting down on the edge of the bathtub. "A dime, Sam! A dime! That's like a fuckin' quarter. Christ, you went to Stanford. Don't you know what a dime looks like?!"
"Ok, ok. I'll put some back." He placates. "How's that?"
"Better. Alright, rub it in your palms." He eyes Sam dubiously. "Then carefully rub it into the top of my hair working forwards." He unconsciously closes his eyes as Sam massages it in, not used to someone else touching his hair.
Sam smiles at Dean's blissed out expression in the mirror. After a moment, Dean seems to come back to himself though and Sam puts on a serious expression. He carefully rakes back the front of Dean's hair as instructed.
"No, man. Not like that. You gotta... No, no. Aw come on. You see my hair every friggen day. Don't you know what it looks like by now?" Dean grumbles.
It takes fifteen minutes of trying but eventually Sam gets his brother's hair up to Dean's specifications.
Just before leaving the bathroom, Dean catches Sam's eyes in the mirror. "Thanks, Sammy." He says sincerely, ducking out of the bathroom before things turn too 'mushy'. The subsequent smile doesn't leave Sam's face for the rest of the day, even as he later hunts down a requested strawberry milkshake in the middle of February.
Sam smiles at the tub of pomade in his hand and scrambles to his feet. Dean is right where he left him on the bed. "Alright, bro. I know you're gonna kick my ass when you find out it took me three days to finally fix your hair, but here ya go." Expertly taking out a dime sized dollop of pomade on his fingers, he rubs it between his palms before working it into the soft strands of Dean's golden hair. He smiles as Dean gets that same blissed out expression. "Feels good huh? You know I'd ask you to reciprocate to see if it feels as nice as it seems, but I know better. You'd have half my hair on the floor before I even open my eyes." He snorts. One of Dean's eyes cracks open and Sam could swear he spots a teasing glint there. Grinning to himself, he takes his time working on Dean's hair. His brother doesn't seem to mind at all. The longer he takes, the heavier and heavier Dean's head leans into his hands.
It takes Sam fifteen minutes, but he finally gets it right. It looks just like it does when Dean does it. Pretty much. The one little piece at the front that goes against the grain of the rest is surprisingly difficult to get right. Dean must have changed something since last time he’d been forced to let Sam touch his hair, because Sam did everything exactly the same, yet there’s something different about it. But at least Dean looks more like himself. It seems like he feels better too, because he’s looking at Sam, and he nods when Sam offers to make him a milkshake.
When Sam gets back with the milkshake (frozen strawberries and crushed granola added, because Dean needs some nutrition), Dean is still on the bed. But he’s not staring vacantly. He’s got a hand to his hair, flicking a few strands into place, and he’s looking out the window. No wait, he’s not looking out the window. He’s looking at it. At his reflection in the glass.
Sam smiles. “Want your milkshake, dude? Or should I give you some time with your hair?”
Dean turns to him. The tiny lock at the front of his hair is swept in the opposite direction to the rest. He reaches to take the milkshake from Sam. “Thanks,” he says hoarsely.
Finally, Sam can breathe again.