Arms Wide Open. Part Eleven.
Part 11/13
Things That Need Fixing And Things That Don’t. [May 9th, 1999]
Dean.
The progress Sammy makes in the following weeks is astounding. All his issues are still there, of course. But he starts talking to Dean on a regular basis, of his own accord. He hasn’t done so with Bobby yet, but he always answers him, and that’s enough to get both hunters giddy with joy. He never asks questions, though. Not once. It’s weird because little Sammy had been nothing but questions all day long, but Sam compensates that with the way he moulds his statements. Dean has told Bobby about it, but the other hunter didn’t understand. Apparently, Bobby doesn’t hear a thing other than the words that are spoken. Dean wonders whether that’s because Sammy’s not yet up for real conversations with the man or whether it’s a big brother thing to get. Either way, it’s amazing. Since he started listening to what could lie behind a single word, his world has gotten richer, somehow. Not that he’d ever put it that way.
Little by little, Dean shows Sammy around the rest of the house. Sam never leaves the panic room on his own, but when Dean asks him to tag along, he does; it’s like having his own, well-behaved, Sammy-sized puppy. He bets the kid would roll over if he told him to. It’s clearly something those demon assholes did to him; they’ve screwed with Sammy’s brain. Reversing this goes on the long mental list Dean keeps, his get-Sammy-better list. For now though, Dean lets it slide. He’s just glad that the boy is getting out of the fucking basement at all. They aren’t up for much, at first. He leads his little brother to the kitchen and gets him a glass of water there. They walk through the living room also known as Bobby’s study and Sammy stays there for a few minutes, marveling at all the books. He introduces Sammy to the concept of bathrooms, but he can tell that he’s uncomfortable with it. So they’ll stick with buckets a little longer; Dean didn’t expect to work through the list in a matter of weeks anyway. They cover the first floor and the attic, too. Sammy is generally curious about, well, everything there is, but he can’t seem to do much with the idea of all this space. Even when their wanderings are short it takes a long time until the tension seeps from Sammy’s posture when they are back downstairs.
But Dean has long since decided that Sam won’t spend the rest of his life in the house, no way in hell. So as soon as Sam is used to their daily explorations, Dean tries to prolong them. Sometimes it works by just leading Sam to the bookshelves. The kid has always liked to read, and that’s a thing that apparently hasn’t changed over the years. But Sammy doesn’t just need book smarts. If he’s ever supposed to find his way in this world, he’ll need other abilities as well. So Dean takes him along when he tends to all the things that need doing. The laundry, for example, or washing the dishes. Sammy isn’t as sensitive to sunlight as he’d been fresh out of the container, but he still isn’t big on empty space. That limits their actions a little, no cleaning of windows for example. But that’s fine. It’ll give them something to work up to. Dean’s method works quite well; he acts and Sammy follows suit. They mop the floors and unpack the groceries. They sort through all the stuff in the attic, wipe down kitchen and bathroom surfaces and they fix things that are broken.
This time, it’s the leaky faucet in the upstairs bathroom that Bobby’s been complaining about for at least a month. Dean goes to get the toolbox from the hall closet when he realizes where he was last when he’d seen a variety of household tools. So after swallowing back a bout of nausea he leaves the box behind the door and opts for getting whatever they need from there. Leaving Sammy to stare at an open toolbox is nothing he wants to do, ever. He picks the kid up from the panic room and they make their way upstairs. The faucet is still dripping away erratically and Dean squints his eyes at it.
“Ok, Sammy,” he says, “Are you ready for today's special?”
Sam looks at him, pale and a little wide-eyed. Today isn’t one of the good days. It’s not a particularly bad one, but it’s serious enough to have the kid freezing at nearly everything. They can count themselves lucky if Sammy raises his voice above a low mumble, but Dean is attuned to Sammyspeak by now so he can deal with that. Right now, Sammy’s not backing away and not dropping his gaze, so Dean counts that as a win. He thinks about what he just said and frowns a little. Sam might be an avid reader, but he’s a little like Castiel where spoken language and colloquialisms are concerned. Dean taps at the sink and then points at the drops of water.
“Sammy. Would you like to help me? Keep the faucet from leaking?” This time Sam nods and steps a little closer. Dean grins at his brother, and a sudden surge of pride steals his breath. Inwardly he rolls his eyes at himself. You’re such a girl, Winchester!
“Stay here, Sammy. I’ll be right back.” Dean waits till Sam nods once more and dives for the box in the closet. The hinges squeak a little when he opens it, and he takes stock of what they have. His smiles at the sight of a small portable radio that wears splatters of at least four different paint jobs. That’s perfect, he thinks and returns to the bathroom.
“Do you mind if we listen to the radio while we handle this?”
Sam’s eyes get that far-away expression that Dean knows so well by now. To everyone else it might seem as if the kid just spaces out for a minute, but Dean sees how doubt and fear flick through those hazel orbs. He doesn’t move and doesn’t talk; just stands and waits. It takes Sam a little to get his bearings, but finally his little brother glances at the radio. “Ok.”
Dean raises his eyebrows. He is thankful that they’re up to words today, a silent Sammy marks a day Dean failed. He nods at his little brother and plugs in the small radio. “Perfect. Let’s see what we got.”
The radio is old and battered and probably won’t give them much of a sound, but Dean doesn’t care. When he’s on the road he listens to music nonstop. He probably never went without music for this long in his life, ever. So for now, the tiny radio will do. He works through static, ignores a flute concert and two annoying radio announcers, and finally settles with the last chords of Metallica’s ‘One’.
“That’s more like it. Ah, we sure missed a masterpiece there, Sammy. Now, I’ll be right back. Wait here.”
Dean returns to the cabinet once more and prepares to give the friggin’ faucet a run for its money. The first notes of the next song echo over while he rummages through the tools. He’s sure there’s a pipe wrench in there somewhere. In the background, a raspy voice starts singing. ‘Well I just heard- the news today. It seems my life- is going to change. I close my eyes, begin to pray. Then tears of jooy- stream down my faaace.’
The tool is nowhere to be found. “Oh for the love of- Where is the stupid thing?”
‘With arms wide open, under the sunlight. Welcome to this place, I’ll show you everything. With arms wide open.’ Dean finally glimpses the wrench and in his effort to get it out from underneath everything else, three screwdrivers and a pair of pliers scatter to the floor. He shrugs and nudges them back to the box with his shoe.
“We’re all set, Sammy. This is what we’re gon- Sammy?” When Dean gets back, Sammy isn’t moving. Now, that’s not unusual on a bad day, but something about this has the hairs on Dean’s neck rising. All about the way Sam holds himself screams danger to Dean, but nothing could have happened in the minute he left the kid alone to- oh no. He knows this train of thought. He knows better than anyone what can go wrong in a matter of seconds when Dean neglects his duty - when he doesn’t watch out for Sam. He could kick himself. “Sammy?”
He slowly walks around the kid to give him a once over and his world zeroes in on this very moment. Something’s wrong. Sam’s eyes are wider than ever, his gaze is a little unfocused and his mouth hangs open. Cheeks and chin are glistening with tears. Dean’s grip goes slack around the wrench in his hands and he almost drops it. He catches it the last second, lowers it carefully to the ground. Fighting the impulse to shake Sammy out of this and to fucking tell him what’s wrong, he schools his face to lose the panicky edge. He raises his hands, grabs Sam’s shoulders, and rubs his hands up and down a little to get the kid’s attention.
“Sammy. What is it? Are you hurt?” Dean keeps his voice low and gentle but Sam keeps staring straight ahead, right through him. The expression on his face is nothing Dean has ever seen. Then his brother’s eyes focus on him, thank god, and he shrugs and shakes his head at the same time. Which, seriously, doesn’t help Dean getting to the source of this.
“Sam. Talk to me, buddy. What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?” This time he gets a more resolute headshake and a grunt. Dean still doesn’t jiggle him, but it’s a close thing. Words, Sammy, use your words. Sam does, a second later, and he sounds shaken to the core.
“N-no. I’m not. It’s just- it’s-” Sam is visually grasping for words. Dean’s anxiety grows but he can’t get impatient now, that won’t lead them anywhere. A couple of tears follow down the tracks on Sammy’s cheeks. Sam huffs and wipes his sleeve over his face. He tilts his head and does a brief waving gesture.“Oh,” he says, “It’s beautiful.”
Ok, Sam has lost him, he doesn’t get it. Did Sammy finally snap? Not that he’d blame the kid. But despite this being one of the difficult days, things were going ok. He can’t fathom where they went wrong. The radio cracks a little when the song gets to a lame guitar solo, and Sam’s eyes roll back in his head. Tears keep streaming down his face, staining the front of his shirt. Dean becomes frantic. Sam blindly reaches for Dean, squeezes his arm tight enough to actually hurt, and chokes on the next word. “Oh.”
Finally, Dean catches on. “The music, Sammy? You like the music?”
It’s ridiculous is what it is, this isn’t even Led Zeppelin or ACDC or not even some opera blasting at them full force - so what, Dean likes music, and sometimes there are no classic rock stations when he’s driving cross country. Getting goose bumps at the slave choir of Nabucco doesn’t impair his ability to hunt; he figures that as far as guilty pleasures go, he could have done worse.
But this, here, that’s nothing, just a flat rock-song wannabe. If anything, this is the worst post-grunge he has ever heard. The radio doesn’t even have subwoofers; the bass line is as good as nonexistent. Regardless of all the above, Sam seems to be on the verge of passing out. His grip on Dean is unrelenting. When realization finally slams home, Dean gets dizzy for a second. He reaches for Sam in return and he isn’t sure who is clinging to whom anymore. This could be the first time Sammy hears music in- in years. Dean fiercely wishes Bobby had found a way to kill angels yet; Zachariah would be dead meat.
“Music,” Sam says, “Yes. It’s beautiful.” He tilts his head back, blinks against the tears, and closes his eyes. Then he laughs. His eyes are leaking tear after tear and the kid fucking giggles, and now it’s Dean’s eyes that are brimming. He tries to imagine that this were the first song he ever heard and goes still. He can’t miss a single note.
The guitar break is over and the voice continues singing. ‘If I had just one wish, only one demand, I hope he’s not like me. I hope he understands that he can take this life and hold it by the hand. And he can greet the world with arms wide open.’ Fuck if this isn’t some sign of karma. The drip drip in the background fades to the words that seem so cheesy. Seriously, who writes that kind of crap? And how come those are nearly the exact same words Dean has been thinking, every fucking day, since Sammy’s been back? This can’t be real.
Both brothers are unmoving and Dean has never before listened to music this intensively. Not even when late night rock ballads were his only companion while sitting on the hood of his baby, gazing at the endless starry skies above and wishing for the space next to him not to be this empty. Sam’s eyes are still shut and he sways a little so Dean pulls him in closer until they are head to heart. ‘With Arms wide open, under the sunlight. Welcome to this place, I’ll show you everything with arms wide open. Now everything has changed. I’ll show you love. I’ll show you everything with arms wide open.” This is surreal. Every. Fucking. Word. Hits right home; it’s as if someone gave his hopes and fears a corporeal form to bludgeon him with them now.
When the song comes to an end, Dean steps back a little. He searches his brother’s face for signs of unease or pain but there are none, only pure, exhilarating amazement. The cackle of the announcer snaps him out of his thoughts, and he feels strangely violated. He dives for the radio and doesn’t bother with the power switch, he just pulls the thing right from the socket. When the bathroom is silent again, Dean is half tempted to make a snarky comment about their working moral or about Sam’s taste in music. He doesn’t, though. Sammy’s first song, that’s huge. No one ever died from a leaky faucet - Bobby will just have to suck it up a little longer. Dean reaches for Sam’s elbow.
“Sammy. What do you think of some hot chocolate now, huh? Let’s go to the kitchen.” The kid nods and they leave the bathroom behind, the steady pling-pling of water dripping into the sink fading away.
Spring becomes summer and Sam keeps improving. Their talks get longer and the kid starts to relax in Dean’s presence, as he is elated to notice. Also, he starts smiling. Nothing like the huge dimpled grins Dean was used to with six-year-old Sammy, but it is such a massive step forward that he cherishes every twitch of that mouth, no matter how small. Bobby has upped his game and started cooking for real. Not just soup and pasta and stuff, no. He is trying out real dishes, the recipe kind. Much to their surprise, he’s really good at it. For Dean, there’s still too much green stuff in there, but Sammy likes it. Dean has gotten Bobby an apron. A sturdy, gray one that reads “How’s the chef?” in bold red letters above an disturbingly authentic blood spatter print. Bobby had smacked his head for that, but he wears it nevertheless. Dean knows better than to make mention of that, but when Cas notices and compliments him on the good sense to protect his clothes from the dangers of cooking, Bobby turns a lovely shade of red. That earns Dean another, hearty smack and a grumbled “Shut it, idjit!”.
They still look for John, although nowadays it’s mostly Castiel that does the zapping and the actual looking, while Bobby and Dean stay at the salvage yard. Sammy is nowhere near to facing the outside world yet and that means the hunters are staying, too. No one minds, though. In the beginning Dean had feared that Bobby would grow tired of them or that he himself might go crazy being cooped up for a longer stretch of time - it’s happened before. Frankly, there are times when he’s craving the freedom of answering to no one, of just going wherever the road takes him. But something about the way Sammy looks at him, no matter whether it’s a shoe or a shoulder day, fills Dean’s chest with pride and a comfortable, steady warmth. He knows it sounds sappy which is why he’d never say it aloud, but just being with the kid and knowing that he’s safe is enough of an reward for all the crap they’re going through with him. Since Dean has grown used to listen to the small truths behind words, he knows that Bobby feels exactly the same way. With how Sammy gives them purpose, gratitude, and peace of mind he’s paying them back a hundredfold.
Since the Canadian Mission that went so terribly wrong in January, they have extended their research north. It turns out that John indeed went to Windigo Lake, Ontario. Apparently he’d stayed there for a few weeks until he followed the pattern of demonic omens to the east. They reckon that he was on his way to Chibougamau, drawn by the demonic guards that also led Simon and his friends there. Only, he never made it. He vanished somewhere between the two and fuck, it’s a lot of somewhere they have to cover. Castiel has searched the immediate and the wider vicinity, but without Dad’s exact location, the woods of Ontario or Quebec or who knows what else keep him hidden.
They catch a break when Cas tries to figure out what exactly he did at Windigo Lake, of all places. The angel discovers that the Chapleau Cree have pointed Dad to the chief’s office of the Moose Cree First Nation. That’s where Dad had met Nelly Wynne, subject matter expert on all things demonic. From there, Dad had left looking for the Cree giant, a monster of possible demonic descent, and that’s the last anyone has heard of him. That’s not the break though, it gets better. When word gets around that the American has gotten lost while following their directions, both Cree Nations assemble an impromptu council and announce to help with the search. The whole thing is quite mysterious. All Cas is able to report is that it seems to be working. And that no, he still doesn’t know what exactly they are doing. And that also, no, they still can’t say how long it’ll take. Ah well, Dean tries to comfort himself every time there are no concrete news, beggars can’t be choosers.
Sammy doesn’t shy away from proximity as often as he used to. Although as a general statement that’s not really true. It is the case where Dean is concerned though, and that is all he needs to know. Castiel still won’t go near him; Bobby would but he doesn’t press the matter. Dean is silently thanking the man for that because pressuring Sammy hasn’t worked in their favor so far. The brothers themselves are kind of circling around each other. To Dean it feels more like an ellipse, really - drawn by a hiccupping five-year-old.
Dean tries to be neither too close nor too far, and it’s an exhausting thing to be aware of all the time. But he’s been able to pat Sammy’s shoulder a few times and to ruffle his hair. On one noteworthy occasion Sam has grabbed Dean’s arm to keep him from tripping over a pile of books. Dean had been smiling that whole afternoon. He hadn’t noticed how starved he was for that kind of closeness that had been such a huge part of their daily routine, before all this shit. Of course he’d hugged the squirt or wrestled with him on the floor or had lain shoulder to shoulder to him on the hood of the Impala, inventing stories about far away stars and galaxies.
Dean was Sammy’s- well, he was his Dean. He’d toweled his little brother dry after swimming, wiped his face after crying and held him close through his nightmares. He might have been aware of their lack of touch on some subconscious level, but now that he is reminded of how different things are, he misses it. He can tell that Sammy is, too.
Sam loves books; it makes the kid’s day to just sit on the floor of the panic room and read. Since Dean has no idea how that I’ll-know-where-it-is-when-I-find-it-and-in-case-of-emergency filing system of Bobby’s works, they simply start at one side of the study and slowly make their way across. Whatever happens to be next in their path, makes it down to the basement. They have desk lamps down there but Sammy doesn’t care much for artificial light. All the reading in the twilight can’t be good for the kid, though, so Dean relocates their reading time to the upper level. Sammy still is drawn to the ground and Dean never minds where he is as long as he can keep an eye on his little brother. So some days the boys will take a blanket and a book each and follow the squares of light that the sun casts on the ground. Like cats drawn to the warmth, Dean thinks and wonders briefly where that snippet of information came from. He probably read it somewhere; he does that a lot lately. To his own surprise, it’s not as bad as he’d feared. Sure, the longing for his baby and for the high following a job well done are clawing at him something fierce. But he makes do. After all, he has nine years to catch up to. Also, Sammy is so much better already, Dean might be able to take him on a short ride in a month or two. Or maybe three. Ok, maybe not. But he can dream about it and someday, it’s gonna happen. After a few near misses Bobby has gotten used to their book routine, too, and remembers to look where he steps.
Today they sprawl over the floor of the study. Sammy is entranced by one of the novels that so happen to be buried under every other pile and that Bobby swears up and down are old, forgotten books that he never even knew he had. Sam is much better at the word-truth thing than Dean, but even he can tell that the hint of embarrassment in the older man’s voice is far outweighed by fondness and joy. Seriously, Dean loves the guy. It’s a prime example of what Sam does to them. The kids awe and delight are infectious. The better Sammy feels, the more contentment settles in the hunters’ stomachs. Dean doubts that the Singer house has seen this much clumsily denied affection in, like, ever.
Right now, the kid is bent over The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. As coincidence has had it, the last novel he’d found was The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Sam had loved it. Today though, he won’t stop frowning at the book in front of him. Sometimes he shakes his head at it, too. After an hour of observing that from the corner of his eye, his curiosity gets the better of him “Did Mark Twain do something wrong, Sammy?”
Sam nods. “Yes.”
Oh. Dean had been joking, but this he wants to hear now. “What did he do?”
Sam looks up from the pages and ticks off his fingers. “First, Huck knows where they are although he can’t. He’s no psychic though, so he isn’t supposed to know. It doesn’t make sense. It sounds as if he just forgot to write that part. Second, when Huck meets the Grangerfords, the colonel is ‘old and grey’ but a little later he’s not having hair at all. It spoils the read a little, is all.” The kid looks utterly disappointed. He sounds it, too.
“Erm. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to notice all that. I wouldn’t. You’re too clever for your own good, you freaking know it all.” Sam looks up at Dean’s grin with wide eyes. His lips are slightly ajar, as if he were trying not to say something. His expression is odd. He looks like he is aiming for a sincere smile and failing spectacularly. It’s more a self-conscious grimace than anything.
“No I don’t. I hardly know anything”
Sammy sounds defensive and- well, strange. Overly much so. Normally the kid is better at hiding things - not from Dean, mind you. But he appreciates good craftsmanship when he sees it. For him to act like this, this must have thrown him really of balance. He thinks about what to say to comfort Sammy, no way will a stupid book keep the kid’s mood down. But the way Sam keeps staring at Dean’s chin and not at the words, keeps nagging him. He’s missing something. When realization hits, it does so with all the charm of an ice-water bucket.
“Oh. No-no, Sammy.” Dean suppresses a sigh and the urge to whack himself with the tome on ghost possession he’d been skimming through. He hadn’t meant it as an insult, of course. But who knows how it had sounded to Sam. Not friendly, that’s for sure. Dean needs to rectify this, now.
“That was no, like, negative criticism. You see, a ‘know it all’, that’s someone really clever. A person so smart that those around them envy them. They see how stupid they are when they compare themselves to them.” And what a nice way to lead by example, well done. Sam is still wearing that strange expression, half grin, half grimace. Dean tries to shut up his inner guilt trip and scrambles for more words.
“So, uhm. Although it doesn’t speak for those who say it, it’s actually kind of a compliment. I’m really sor-” Just as he feels himself drowning in this, he catches a slight head shake from across the room. Dean swallows against the lump in his throat. There’s an unfamiliar glint in his brother’s eyes. Shit. Fucked this up big time.
Sam keeps on shaking his head, overdoing it to the point of parody and sighs exactly as exasperated as Bobby usually does when he’s fed up with Deans antics. Dean hangs his head and fights the urge to scream because exactly how hard can it be to watch his stupid mouth? It’s not as if Sammy didn’t have enough shit to deal with already. Trust Dean to pile even more on him.
“You really don’t need to apologize.” Is that- is that a giggle that’s hiding there? Dean looks up again and as a matter of fact Sam grins across the room, obviously very pleased with himself. Dean’s breath catches. He hesitates for a moment, unsure of how to tread these unfamiliar waters. Sam cocks his head and is still clearly enjoying the situation.
“Sammy, are you pulling a joke on me?”
The next giggle Sam lets lose flutters right to Deans stomach, makes itself at home there, and shoos away some of the heavy knots in return. Sammy’s face lights up with a grin that borders on a full on dimpled smile; he nods and stares at Dean’s forehead. Dean gasps. Almost, Sammy, almost to the eyes. The kid’s gaze becomes hopeful. “Was it a good one?”
Dean Winchester isn’t wearing his emotions on his sleeve, so he’s definitely not blinking some wetness away. Is. Not. “It’s one of the best I’ve ever heard, Sammy, in a long time.” Dean’s not even making this up. It’s nowhere near as hard as he’d feared, to pour himself open like this. And if this is what he gets in return, man- his life is good. He lays every ounce of sincerity that he has into his next words. “The best, Sammy. Honest.”
He is so proud of his kid, he can’t even say. Or think. Sam probably gets it anyway - stupid smart kid of his - and rewards Dean with another small, amused smile. He nods at his big brother once, before settling his attention back to the book in front of him. Dean does his best not to continuously stare at the enigma that is his little brother. He doesn’t succeed. It might have been the most perfect hour he has spend in silence, ever.
Dean.
Dean moves into the the panic room. Sammy’s still sleeping on the floor, but Dean hopes he’ll switch to the cot eventually so he leaves it in. The second cot makes the room a little cramped, but at this point neither of them cares. Dean is getting desperate and Sam is getting worse. It’s the dreams that ruin things. Dean and Bobby don’t know why and all Dean’s precious research won’t help. A few weeks ago, Sammy started having nightmares. It’s as if now that the kid’s main focus isn’t just surviving the next day, his subconscious tries to come to terms with all the shit he’s been dealt. Or so Dean guesses, because while talking indeed is done, this is not a topic they have broached yet or will in the near future. Not with the rate Sam is fucking deteriorating, anyways. It’s not just the dreams themselves, although they probably play a huge role in this. It’s also the lack of sleep. The nightmares unsettle the kid to the point that he tries not to sleep at all, no matter how often Dean pleads with him to just close his eyes and give it another try.
Sam.
The nights are the worst. Sam’s having a lot of trouble with all the changes that constantly happen around him. Usually, he’s glad when night time comes because then he can try to understand his days and reflect on this strange new routine of his. But now Sam wishes he could somehow get rid of the nights, like, completely. He started dreaming of horrible things. Death and decay, the Now and the Box, all jumbled together and as real as if it were true. He never knows that he’s sleeping until Dean shakes him awake.
Whatever he tries to do, however much he tries to change what he’s dreaming of, the imagery stays heavy and dark. He doesn’t know which dreams are worst because frankly, they all terrify him. He doesn’t understand why it keeps happening, either. He’s with Dean and Bobby now and they are so much nicer than his old guards ever were. He never dreamt of these things back in his Box, although back then he’d been actually living his nightmares, at least part of them. This whole situation is exhausting and he is growing tired, both physically and mentally, of his new nightly routine. He has tried staying awake a few times. It works well enough, but at some point he can’t fight the fatigue anymore. This evening he’s closing in on such a point, he feels it in his weary bones. This would be the third night in a row that he’d go without sleep and he knows he can’t do it. The lack of it makes him slow and clumsy and stupid in his head. Before he closes his eyes, the last thing he wishes is for a night of blessed nothing. It’s not meant to be.
Sam dreams of Sara, of the first time she had turned in front of him and of the feeling of her soft fur under his hands. His fingers are sticky and when he looks at them they glisten with red. Sara crumbles to the ground, her proud neck broken and her eyes open but unseeing. Behind him, someone’s saying her names, her true names, over and over. It’s just as harrowing as the sobs that echo over from the left. Who is crying. Sam is crying. He dreams of the books they read, Sara and he. Of the shoulder she offered him to lean against and of her silvery laugh. The books rot away in front of him, and her laugh turns into a scream so agonized and terrified that he slaps his hands over his ears and begs her to stop. She doesn’t; she can’t. She’s dying. Always dying, over and over. She is living, loving, laughing; and then she is dead. He dreams of Bobby and Castiel and they are dying, too. Sam tries to close his eyes but he doesn’t have eyes. He has hands, though, big and dangerous hands. He can feel the taint of his soul stick to them. It permeates his skin and corrupts whatever he touches. It’s me, he realizes. This is my fault. It’s me who does the killing.
He can’t breathe for a moment, the truth is too terrible for trivial things like oxygen. Sam tries to get rid of his hands, to clean them at least, but no matter how hard he grinds them through the gravel, his blood keeps flowing and ruins everything. He begs the guards for help but they shake their heads at him, silently. He is beyond the hopes of being saved. Then his hands are gone, everything’s gone except for Dean who has been there all the time, as he just noticed. He wants to beg Dean to help him, but he can’t talk. Dean looks at him, hopeful and expectant. “Well?” he asks and smiles. But Sam can’t move, he is nothing, he has no limbs with which to hold onto his brother and no mouth to plead for him to stay. Dean’s face changes, he sees the truth now, the monster underneath. His smile fades and is replaced by disgust and horror. “You’re no brother of mine,” Dean says and turns away. Sam tries to run after him, to call for him, but all he can do is watch and despair as Dean is getting smaller and smaller until he is gone.
To the right, the bald man, Zachariah, stands and looks at him. His eyes pierce through his very soul. He is dissected by the angel’s unwavering stare, he is stripped blank until all of him is laid bare, neat and tiny, to be stored into Boxes and hidden away. The angel tilts his head and smiles, and Pain reverberates through his very heart. Sam starts to scream.
“Sammy. Hey, hey. Sammy, wake up man. Sam! Please, you have to snap out of it. Sam! Wake up, now!” Dean’s words guide him back to the panic room where Sam is lying on the floor, panting and sweating. Dean has one hand on his shoulder and the other one at the side of Sam’s face. It’s still evening, he can’t have slept for long; the light of late dusk filters down to them. It casts long shadows on Dean’s face and illuminates his horror-struck expression. He knows, Sam thinks, he has seen the monster. But he can’t let Dean walk. Here, he is corporeal; he has arms and hands. So he feels for Dean’s hand on his face and grips it tight in his own. Dean sucks in a gasp of breath, but Sam doesn’t let go. It is simple, really. Dean cannot leave him; Sam wouldn’t survive.
His brother’s expression changes; he looks close to tears now. These green eyes that are nearly overflowing strike a chord inside his chest, and Sam feels himself sound with it. It gets stronger and stronger and he has to screw up his face to hold it in. But it is ripping its way out of his chest; it sweeps Sam up, it breaks his hold, and shatters him to pieces. He hasn’t noticed, but his cheeks are wet with tears. Sam is crying, and the early silent shivers turn into sobs and gasps and outright bawling. Dean just left him but now he is here, and the opposite pulls of being lost and found wash away whatever self restraint he had left. It’s not pretty, all teary snot and drool and grimaces of pain and despair. The sounds he makes contain no words; this is too big for them. Sam grieves for all that he is and for all that he’s lost.
Dean.
When he’d heard the kid tossing on the floor, Dean had gotten up quickly. Sammy’s dreams have become more vicious of late and Dean hates what they do to his brother. Normally, the kid twitches under his blankets or mumbles something intelligible while he’s fighting his fears, but this night Sammy starts screaming. Dean stops dead in his tracks, horrified. All the kid’s loss and despair seem to cling to the sound. Dean nearly gets sick right then and there. At first, Sammy won’t wake up so he touches the kid’s face and leans down as close as he dares while he talks to him, trying to free him from this, whatever this is. When Sam’s eyes finally snap open, they mirror what Dean has heard in the scream. It’s heartbreaking. For a long moment Dean can’t move, but then he realizes he’s still holding on to the kid. Just as he pries his fingers from Sammy’s shoulder, his little brother grips the hand that still rests on his cheek.
Sam will push him away; Dean has overstepped their frail bounds and he curses at the setback this will be for both of them. But Sammy doesn’t. Instead, he holds on to him as if he fears Dean might vanish any second. This is the first time his little brother reaches out for him like that after his time with Zachariah. Dean feels his emotions getting the better of him, and if he wants to hide that fact from Sammy he needs to let go of him. He can’t, though, and he doesn’t want to, either. Through his blurry vision he sees how Sammy’s face screws up and then Sam starts crying. Dean is baffled; that’s two firsts in one night. Soon the silent sobs that wreck his brother’s frame become louder, and Dean is getting scared. Sammy seems to simply surrender to this, and while it’ll probably help him in the long run, right now Dean wishes he could make it stop. Sammy suffering has lost nothing of its terrifying quality.
The sounds that come out of his kid brother aren’t even close to anything human, it’s more of a primal release, all guttural moaning and outright bawling. Dean feels reminded of a documentary he once saw, holed up in a hospital with a badly broken leg. A film crew had shadowed families in war zones. Often enough, common people had fallen victim to the battles surrounding them; once, it had been a child. As he listens to Sammy now, he remembers how the family had reacted, how the women had thrown themselves to the ground, arms stretched to the sky, and wailed with agony to vast for words. That’s exactly what this is, he suddenly realizes and feels his guts clench. This is grieve on a level so deep that Sammy can’t escape. There is nothing for Dean to help him. All he can do is let it ravage Sam’s body and try to ride it out. Let the kid know he’s not alone, that Dean will be his rock. He tries not to lose hope that afterwards, enough of Sammy will remain to survive another day.
It sounds like his little brother is torn apart right next to him though, and it’s not long before tears of his own mix with Sammy’s. Dean carefully lies down next to him, strokes his hair with the hand that Sammy doesn’t have in a death grip, and starts whispering nonsensical reassurances. The kid responds by curling into Dean’s chest, pressed in close enough that Dean fears he might not get enough air with all the crying he’s still doing. He gently lays his arm across Sammy’s shoulder and so they stay, making sounds without words, for hours. Sam doesn’t calm down for a long time and Dean gets so scared that he resorts to check Sam for injuries several times. Just to occupy his mind and to make sure that Sammy’s still whole, at least on the outside. Every time he’s made sure that all his baby brother’s limbs are still attached and he’s not spurting any blood, his eyes settle back on the top of the boy’s head. His free right hand keeps painting small circles into the soft cotton that’s covering Sam’s back. His left arm has gone numb hours ago.
When Sammy finally goes silent and drifts off to sleep, Dean allows himself to blank out. There is nothing. He has nothing. Not a single thing to offer his brother, he doesn’t even know-. Anything. How is he supposed to make this right? What’s he going to do if Sam can’t come back from this, if there is nothing left to return back to? This is too much and Dean is not enough. He can’t make unsaid or undone what Sammy has been through. He couldn’t keep his brother from being taken, he wasn’t quick enough to find him and after everything, he might not be able to help Sam overcome this. This is fucking unfair, all of it! He feels like the universe could at least stop for a second, give him a moment to catch his breath. But the world goes on and passes them by, seven billion people oblivious to their tragedy.
What keeps Dean tethered to sanity that night is the steady thump-thump that Sammy’s heart beats against his chest and the slowly dawning realization that his little brother, finally, is back in his arms. Dean is equal parts relieved and appalled and as he stares into the dark he feels like the worst big brother ever.
Bobby.
They have come a long way, but Bobby knows that this battle is far from over. He’s had his doubts it could be won at all, but when Sam finally started responding to Dean, Bobby’d gone all in. It’s worth it too, he has no regrets. Sam is growing and healing in every way possible. But during the last few weeks, Sam’s past seemed to finally catch up to him. Of course Bobby talked things through with Dean, but they were both at a loss at how to fight nightmares. So sleep had been hard to come by for all of them; Sammy fighting through his dreams, Dean trying his best to help, and Bobby lying awake - wondering how to help his boys.
This night, things seem to come to a head. Bobby reads up on the new book about trauma studies that Dean had ordered. He wishes that this night, finally, the kids will get a good night’s rest. He’s just about to switch of the lamp on his nightstand when sounds of agony start echoing through the house. Bobby grabs a random selection of shotgun, machete, and holy water and silently sneaks toward the source of the noise. It’s coming from below. When he reaches the stairs to the basement and sees that it’s still plunged into dark, his worry notches up significantly. He edges closer to the sounds and it takes him a few embarrassing long minutes to realize that what he hears is Sammy. He doesn’t know how long he stands in the dark, dumbstruck, and listens to the gut-wrenching combination of one brother sobbing and the other one comforting, both of them utterly distraught.
Bobby doesn’t sleep that night and when Dean enters the kitchen the next morning, he knows that neither did the kid. They look like crap, both of them, red rimmed eyes in pale faces. Bobby hands over a cup of coffee in silence because there is nothing left to say. They’ve reached the end of their rope and now they’ll either find a way to swim in this ocean of shit or they drown. There is no way to pretty this up.
“You boys wanna have some breakfast?” Dean shrugs and pushes his mug from left to right.
“I’m not really hungry, Bobby. I’ll ask Sam though, maybe he wants to-” Dean shrugs again. He looks utterly lost. A few minutes later he still seems to try and figure out how to join the land of coherent thinking, and Bobby pats him on the shoulder and leaves him be.
“I’ll be in the study. Holler if you need me,” he says. Dean shrugs for a third time and Bobby tries not to kick a chair out of frustration when he leaves the kitchen. He almost succeeds. Bobby hates feeling like this, just as much as he hates seeing the toll this takes on his kids. There’s no way back though, and they only have this one shot; they can’t give up without probably losing Sam. Which would equal losing Dean, of that Bobby’s sure. He just wishes he could do more to help. He feels like he’s groping around in the dark, trying to make his way through a minefield by tapping the ground in front of him.
The boys don’t want breakfast, apparently. Or lunch. When Bobby makes his way down a second time, carefully evading creaking floorboards in the process, the phone rings in the study. He curses under his breath and hurries back up and then he doesn’t know what to think anymore. The note that pops up on his phone kindly informs him that he just missed a call from John Winchester.
go back (part ten) || Masterpost || continue (part twelve)
Things That Need Fixing And Things That Don’t. [May 9th, 1999]
Dean.
The progress Sammy makes in the following weeks is astounding. All his issues are still there, of course. But he starts talking to Dean on a regular basis, of his own accord. He hasn’t done so with Bobby yet, but he always answers him, and that’s enough to get both hunters giddy with joy. He never asks questions, though. Not once. It’s weird because little Sammy had been nothing but questions all day long, but Sam compensates that with the way he moulds his statements. Dean has told Bobby about it, but the other hunter didn’t understand. Apparently, Bobby doesn’t hear a thing other than the words that are spoken. Dean wonders whether that’s because Sammy’s not yet up for real conversations with the man or whether it’s a big brother thing to get. Either way, it’s amazing. Since he started listening to what could lie behind a single word, his world has gotten richer, somehow. Not that he’d ever put it that way.
Little by little, Dean shows Sammy around the rest of the house. Sam never leaves the panic room on his own, but when Dean asks him to tag along, he does; it’s like having his own, well-behaved, Sammy-sized puppy. He bets the kid would roll over if he told him to. It’s clearly something those demon assholes did to him; they’ve screwed with Sammy’s brain. Reversing this goes on the long mental list Dean keeps, his get-Sammy-better list. For now though, Dean lets it slide. He’s just glad that the boy is getting out of the fucking basement at all. They aren’t up for much, at first. He leads his little brother to the kitchen and gets him a glass of water there. They walk through the living room also known as Bobby’s study and Sammy stays there for a few minutes, marveling at all the books. He introduces Sammy to the concept of bathrooms, but he can tell that he’s uncomfortable with it. So they’ll stick with buckets a little longer; Dean didn’t expect to work through the list in a matter of weeks anyway. They cover the first floor and the attic, too. Sammy is generally curious about, well, everything there is, but he can’t seem to do much with the idea of all this space. Even when their wanderings are short it takes a long time until the tension seeps from Sammy’s posture when they are back downstairs.
But Dean has long since decided that Sam won’t spend the rest of his life in the house, no way in hell. So as soon as Sam is used to their daily explorations, Dean tries to prolong them. Sometimes it works by just leading Sam to the bookshelves. The kid has always liked to read, and that’s a thing that apparently hasn’t changed over the years. But Sammy doesn’t just need book smarts. If he’s ever supposed to find his way in this world, he’ll need other abilities as well. So Dean takes him along when he tends to all the things that need doing. The laundry, for example, or washing the dishes. Sammy isn’t as sensitive to sunlight as he’d been fresh out of the container, but he still isn’t big on empty space. That limits their actions a little, no cleaning of windows for example. But that’s fine. It’ll give them something to work up to. Dean’s method works quite well; he acts and Sammy follows suit. They mop the floors and unpack the groceries. They sort through all the stuff in the attic, wipe down kitchen and bathroom surfaces and they fix things that are broken.
This time, it’s the leaky faucet in the upstairs bathroom that Bobby’s been complaining about for at least a month. Dean goes to get the toolbox from the hall closet when he realizes where he was last when he’d seen a variety of household tools. So after swallowing back a bout of nausea he leaves the box behind the door and opts for getting whatever they need from there. Leaving Sammy to stare at an open toolbox is nothing he wants to do, ever. He picks the kid up from the panic room and they make their way upstairs. The faucet is still dripping away erratically and Dean squints his eyes at it.
“Ok, Sammy,” he says, “Are you ready for today's special?”
Sam looks at him, pale and a little wide-eyed. Today isn’t one of the good days. It’s not a particularly bad one, but it’s serious enough to have the kid freezing at nearly everything. They can count themselves lucky if Sammy raises his voice above a low mumble, but Dean is attuned to Sammyspeak by now so he can deal with that. Right now, Sammy’s not backing away and not dropping his gaze, so Dean counts that as a win. He thinks about what he just said and frowns a little. Sam might be an avid reader, but he’s a little like Castiel where spoken language and colloquialisms are concerned. Dean taps at the sink and then points at the drops of water.
“Sammy. Would you like to help me? Keep the faucet from leaking?” This time Sam nods and steps a little closer. Dean grins at his brother, and a sudden surge of pride steals his breath. Inwardly he rolls his eyes at himself. You’re such a girl, Winchester!
“Stay here, Sammy. I’ll be right back.” Dean waits till Sam nods once more and dives for the box in the closet. The hinges squeak a little when he opens it, and he takes stock of what they have. His smiles at the sight of a small portable radio that wears splatters of at least four different paint jobs. That’s perfect, he thinks and returns to the bathroom.
“Do you mind if we listen to the radio while we handle this?”
Sam’s eyes get that far-away expression that Dean knows so well by now. To everyone else it might seem as if the kid just spaces out for a minute, but Dean sees how doubt and fear flick through those hazel orbs. He doesn’t move and doesn’t talk; just stands and waits. It takes Sam a little to get his bearings, but finally his little brother glances at the radio. “Ok.”
Dean raises his eyebrows. He is thankful that they’re up to words today, a silent Sammy marks a day Dean failed. He nods at his little brother and plugs in the small radio. “Perfect. Let’s see what we got.”
The radio is old and battered and probably won’t give them much of a sound, but Dean doesn’t care. When he’s on the road he listens to music nonstop. He probably never went without music for this long in his life, ever. So for now, the tiny radio will do. He works through static, ignores a flute concert and two annoying radio announcers, and finally settles with the last chords of Metallica’s ‘One’.
“That’s more like it. Ah, we sure missed a masterpiece there, Sammy. Now, I’ll be right back. Wait here.”
Dean returns to the cabinet once more and prepares to give the friggin’ faucet a run for its money. The first notes of the next song echo over while he rummages through the tools. He’s sure there’s a pipe wrench in there somewhere. In the background, a raspy voice starts singing. ‘Well I just heard- the news today. It seems my life- is going to change. I close my eyes, begin to pray. Then tears of jooy- stream down my faaace.’
The tool is nowhere to be found. “Oh for the love of- Where is the stupid thing?”
‘With arms wide open, under the sunlight. Welcome to this place, I’ll show you everything. With arms wide open.’ Dean finally glimpses the wrench and in his effort to get it out from underneath everything else, three screwdrivers and a pair of pliers scatter to the floor. He shrugs and nudges them back to the box with his shoe.
“We’re all set, Sammy. This is what we’re gon- Sammy?” When Dean gets back, Sammy isn’t moving. Now, that’s not unusual on a bad day, but something about this has the hairs on Dean’s neck rising. All about the way Sam holds himself screams danger to Dean, but nothing could have happened in the minute he left the kid alone to- oh no. He knows this train of thought. He knows better than anyone what can go wrong in a matter of seconds when Dean neglects his duty - when he doesn’t watch out for Sam. He could kick himself. “Sammy?”
He slowly walks around the kid to give him a once over and his world zeroes in on this very moment. Something’s wrong. Sam’s eyes are wider than ever, his gaze is a little unfocused and his mouth hangs open. Cheeks and chin are glistening with tears. Dean’s grip goes slack around the wrench in his hands and he almost drops it. He catches it the last second, lowers it carefully to the ground. Fighting the impulse to shake Sammy out of this and to fucking tell him what’s wrong, he schools his face to lose the panicky edge. He raises his hands, grabs Sam’s shoulders, and rubs his hands up and down a little to get the kid’s attention.
“Sammy. What is it? Are you hurt?” Dean keeps his voice low and gentle but Sam keeps staring straight ahead, right through him. The expression on his face is nothing Dean has ever seen. Then his brother’s eyes focus on him, thank god, and he shrugs and shakes his head at the same time. Which, seriously, doesn’t help Dean getting to the source of this.
“Sam. Talk to me, buddy. What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?” This time he gets a more resolute headshake and a grunt. Dean still doesn’t jiggle him, but it’s a close thing. Words, Sammy, use your words. Sam does, a second later, and he sounds shaken to the core.
“N-no. I’m not. It’s just- it’s-” Sam is visually grasping for words. Dean’s anxiety grows but he can’t get impatient now, that won’t lead them anywhere. A couple of tears follow down the tracks on Sammy’s cheeks. Sam huffs and wipes his sleeve over his face. He tilts his head and does a brief waving gesture.“Oh,” he says, “It’s beautiful.”
Ok, Sam has lost him, he doesn’t get it. Did Sammy finally snap? Not that he’d blame the kid. But despite this being one of the difficult days, things were going ok. He can’t fathom where they went wrong. The radio cracks a little when the song gets to a lame guitar solo, and Sam’s eyes roll back in his head. Tears keep streaming down his face, staining the front of his shirt. Dean becomes frantic. Sam blindly reaches for Dean, squeezes his arm tight enough to actually hurt, and chokes on the next word. “Oh.”
Finally, Dean catches on. “The music, Sammy? You like the music?”
It’s ridiculous is what it is, this isn’t even Led Zeppelin or ACDC or not even some opera blasting at them full force - so what, Dean likes music, and sometimes there are no classic rock stations when he’s driving cross country. Getting goose bumps at the slave choir of Nabucco doesn’t impair his ability to hunt; he figures that as far as guilty pleasures go, he could have done worse.
But this, here, that’s nothing, just a flat rock-song wannabe. If anything, this is the worst post-grunge he has ever heard. The radio doesn’t even have subwoofers; the bass line is as good as nonexistent. Regardless of all the above, Sam seems to be on the verge of passing out. His grip on Dean is unrelenting. When realization finally slams home, Dean gets dizzy for a second. He reaches for Sam in return and he isn’t sure who is clinging to whom anymore. This could be the first time Sammy hears music in- in years. Dean fiercely wishes Bobby had found a way to kill angels yet; Zachariah would be dead meat.
“Music,” Sam says, “Yes. It’s beautiful.” He tilts his head back, blinks against the tears, and closes his eyes. Then he laughs. His eyes are leaking tear after tear and the kid fucking giggles, and now it’s Dean’s eyes that are brimming. He tries to imagine that this were the first song he ever heard and goes still. He can’t miss a single note.
The guitar break is over and the voice continues singing. ‘If I had just one wish, only one demand, I hope he’s not like me. I hope he understands that he can take this life and hold it by the hand. And he can greet the world with arms wide open.’ Fuck if this isn’t some sign of karma. The drip drip in the background fades to the words that seem so cheesy. Seriously, who writes that kind of crap? And how come those are nearly the exact same words Dean has been thinking, every fucking day, since Sammy’s been back? This can’t be real.
Both brothers are unmoving and Dean has never before listened to music this intensively. Not even when late night rock ballads were his only companion while sitting on the hood of his baby, gazing at the endless starry skies above and wishing for the space next to him not to be this empty. Sam’s eyes are still shut and he sways a little so Dean pulls him in closer until they are head to heart. ‘With Arms wide open, under the sunlight. Welcome to this place, I’ll show you everything with arms wide open. Now everything has changed. I’ll show you love. I’ll show you everything with arms wide open.” This is surreal. Every. Fucking. Word. Hits right home; it’s as if someone gave his hopes and fears a corporeal form to bludgeon him with them now.
When the song comes to an end, Dean steps back a little. He searches his brother’s face for signs of unease or pain but there are none, only pure, exhilarating amazement. The cackle of the announcer snaps him out of his thoughts, and he feels strangely violated. He dives for the radio and doesn’t bother with the power switch, he just pulls the thing right from the socket. When the bathroom is silent again, Dean is half tempted to make a snarky comment about their working moral or about Sam’s taste in music. He doesn’t, though. Sammy’s first song, that’s huge. No one ever died from a leaky faucet - Bobby will just have to suck it up a little longer. Dean reaches for Sam’s elbow.
“Sammy. What do you think of some hot chocolate now, huh? Let’s go to the kitchen.” The kid nods and they leave the bathroom behind, the steady pling-pling of water dripping into the sink fading away.
Spring becomes summer and Sam keeps improving. Their talks get longer and the kid starts to relax in Dean’s presence, as he is elated to notice. Also, he starts smiling. Nothing like the huge dimpled grins Dean was used to with six-year-old Sammy, but it is such a massive step forward that he cherishes every twitch of that mouth, no matter how small. Bobby has upped his game and started cooking for real. Not just soup and pasta and stuff, no. He is trying out real dishes, the recipe kind. Much to their surprise, he’s really good at it. For Dean, there’s still too much green stuff in there, but Sammy likes it. Dean has gotten Bobby an apron. A sturdy, gray one that reads “How’s the chef?” in bold red letters above an disturbingly authentic blood spatter print. Bobby had smacked his head for that, but he wears it nevertheless. Dean knows better than to make mention of that, but when Cas notices and compliments him on the good sense to protect his clothes from the dangers of cooking, Bobby turns a lovely shade of red. That earns Dean another, hearty smack and a grumbled “Shut it, idjit!”.
They still look for John, although nowadays it’s mostly Castiel that does the zapping and the actual looking, while Bobby and Dean stay at the salvage yard. Sammy is nowhere near to facing the outside world yet and that means the hunters are staying, too. No one minds, though. In the beginning Dean had feared that Bobby would grow tired of them or that he himself might go crazy being cooped up for a longer stretch of time - it’s happened before. Frankly, there are times when he’s craving the freedom of answering to no one, of just going wherever the road takes him. But something about the way Sammy looks at him, no matter whether it’s a shoe or a shoulder day, fills Dean’s chest with pride and a comfortable, steady warmth. He knows it sounds sappy which is why he’d never say it aloud, but just being with the kid and knowing that he’s safe is enough of an reward for all the crap they’re going through with him. Since Dean has grown used to listen to the small truths behind words, he knows that Bobby feels exactly the same way. With how Sammy gives them purpose, gratitude, and peace of mind he’s paying them back a hundredfold.
Since the Canadian Mission that went so terribly wrong in January, they have extended their research north. It turns out that John indeed went to Windigo Lake, Ontario. Apparently he’d stayed there for a few weeks until he followed the pattern of demonic omens to the east. They reckon that he was on his way to Chibougamau, drawn by the demonic guards that also led Simon and his friends there. Only, he never made it. He vanished somewhere between the two and fuck, it’s a lot of somewhere they have to cover. Castiel has searched the immediate and the wider vicinity, but without Dad’s exact location, the woods of Ontario or Quebec or who knows what else keep him hidden.
They catch a break when Cas tries to figure out what exactly he did at Windigo Lake, of all places. The angel discovers that the Chapleau Cree have pointed Dad to the chief’s office of the Moose Cree First Nation. That’s where Dad had met Nelly Wynne, subject matter expert on all things demonic. From there, Dad had left looking for the Cree giant, a monster of possible demonic descent, and that’s the last anyone has heard of him. That’s not the break though, it gets better. When word gets around that the American has gotten lost while following their directions, both Cree Nations assemble an impromptu council and announce to help with the search. The whole thing is quite mysterious. All Cas is able to report is that it seems to be working. And that no, he still doesn’t know what exactly they are doing. And that also, no, they still can’t say how long it’ll take. Ah well, Dean tries to comfort himself every time there are no concrete news, beggars can’t be choosers.
Sammy doesn’t shy away from proximity as often as he used to. Although as a general statement that’s not really true. It is the case where Dean is concerned though, and that is all he needs to know. Castiel still won’t go near him; Bobby would but he doesn’t press the matter. Dean is silently thanking the man for that because pressuring Sammy hasn’t worked in their favor so far. The brothers themselves are kind of circling around each other. To Dean it feels more like an ellipse, really - drawn by a hiccupping five-year-old.
Dean tries to be neither too close nor too far, and it’s an exhausting thing to be aware of all the time. But he’s been able to pat Sammy’s shoulder a few times and to ruffle his hair. On one noteworthy occasion Sam has grabbed Dean’s arm to keep him from tripping over a pile of books. Dean had been smiling that whole afternoon. He hadn’t noticed how starved he was for that kind of closeness that had been such a huge part of their daily routine, before all this shit. Of course he’d hugged the squirt or wrestled with him on the floor or had lain shoulder to shoulder to him on the hood of the Impala, inventing stories about far away stars and galaxies.
Dean was Sammy’s- well, he was his Dean. He’d toweled his little brother dry after swimming, wiped his face after crying and held him close through his nightmares. He might have been aware of their lack of touch on some subconscious level, but now that he is reminded of how different things are, he misses it. He can tell that Sammy is, too.
Sam loves books; it makes the kid’s day to just sit on the floor of the panic room and read. Since Dean has no idea how that I’ll-know-where-it-is-when-I-find-it-and-in-case-of-emergency filing system of Bobby’s works, they simply start at one side of the study and slowly make their way across. Whatever happens to be next in their path, makes it down to the basement. They have desk lamps down there but Sammy doesn’t care much for artificial light. All the reading in the twilight can’t be good for the kid, though, so Dean relocates their reading time to the upper level. Sammy still is drawn to the ground and Dean never minds where he is as long as he can keep an eye on his little brother. So some days the boys will take a blanket and a book each and follow the squares of light that the sun casts on the ground. Like cats drawn to the warmth, Dean thinks and wonders briefly where that snippet of information came from. He probably read it somewhere; he does that a lot lately. To his own surprise, it’s not as bad as he’d feared. Sure, the longing for his baby and for the high following a job well done are clawing at him something fierce. But he makes do. After all, he has nine years to catch up to. Also, Sammy is so much better already, Dean might be able to take him on a short ride in a month or two. Or maybe three. Ok, maybe not. But he can dream about it and someday, it’s gonna happen. After a few near misses Bobby has gotten used to their book routine, too, and remembers to look where he steps.
Today they sprawl over the floor of the study. Sammy is entranced by one of the novels that so happen to be buried under every other pile and that Bobby swears up and down are old, forgotten books that he never even knew he had. Sam is much better at the word-truth thing than Dean, but even he can tell that the hint of embarrassment in the older man’s voice is far outweighed by fondness and joy. Seriously, Dean loves the guy. It’s a prime example of what Sam does to them. The kids awe and delight are infectious. The better Sammy feels, the more contentment settles in the hunters’ stomachs. Dean doubts that the Singer house has seen this much clumsily denied affection in, like, ever.
Right now, the kid is bent over The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. As coincidence has had it, the last novel he’d found was The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Sam had loved it. Today though, he won’t stop frowning at the book in front of him. Sometimes he shakes his head at it, too. After an hour of observing that from the corner of his eye, his curiosity gets the better of him “Did Mark Twain do something wrong, Sammy?”
Sam nods. “Yes.”
Oh. Dean had been joking, but this he wants to hear now. “What did he do?”
Sam looks up from the pages and ticks off his fingers. “First, Huck knows where they are although he can’t. He’s no psychic though, so he isn’t supposed to know. It doesn’t make sense. It sounds as if he just forgot to write that part. Second, when Huck meets the Grangerfords, the colonel is ‘old and grey’ but a little later he’s not having hair at all. It spoils the read a little, is all.” The kid looks utterly disappointed. He sounds it, too.
“Erm. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to notice all that. I wouldn’t. You’re too clever for your own good, you freaking know it all.” Sam looks up at Dean’s grin with wide eyes. His lips are slightly ajar, as if he were trying not to say something. His expression is odd. He looks like he is aiming for a sincere smile and failing spectacularly. It’s more a self-conscious grimace than anything.
“No I don’t. I hardly know anything”
Sammy sounds defensive and- well, strange. Overly much so. Normally the kid is better at hiding things - not from Dean, mind you. But he appreciates good craftsmanship when he sees it. For him to act like this, this must have thrown him really of balance. He thinks about what to say to comfort Sammy, no way will a stupid book keep the kid’s mood down. But the way Sam keeps staring at Dean’s chin and not at the words, keeps nagging him. He’s missing something. When realization hits, it does so with all the charm of an ice-water bucket.
“Oh. No-no, Sammy.” Dean suppresses a sigh and the urge to whack himself with the tome on ghost possession he’d been skimming through. He hadn’t meant it as an insult, of course. But who knows how it had sounded to Sam. Not friendly, that’s for sure. Dean needs to rectify this, now.
“That was no, like, negative criticism. You see, a ‘know it all’, that’s someone really clever. A person so smart that those around them envy them. They see how stupid they are when they compare themselves to them.” And what a nice way to lead by example, well done. Sam is still wearing that strange expression, half grin, half grimace. Dean tries to shut up his inner guilt trip and scrambles for more words.
“So, uhm. Although it doesn’t speak for those who say it, it’s actually kind of a compliment. I’m really sor-” Just as he feels himself drowning in this, he catches a slight head shake from across the room. Dean swallows against the lump in his throat. There’s an unfamiliar glint in his brother’s eyes. Shit. Fucked this up big time.
Sam keeps on shaking his head, overdoing it to the point of parody and sighs exactly as exasperated as Bobby usually does when he’s fed up with Deans antics. Dean hangs his head and fights the urge to scream because exactly how hard can it be to watch his stupid mouth? It’s not as if Sammy didn’t have enough shit to deal with already. Trust Dean to pile even more on him.
“You really don’t need to apologize.” Is that- is that a giggle that’s hiding there? Dean looks up again and as a matter of fact Sam grins across the room, obviously very pleased with himself. Dean’s breath catches. He hesitates for a moment, unsure of how to tread these unfamiliar waters. Sam cocks his head and is still clearly enjoying the situation.
“Sammy, are you pulling a joke on me?”
The next giggle Sam lets lose flutters right to Deans stomach, makes itself at home there, and shoos away some of the heavy knots in return. Sammy’s face lights up with a grin that borders on a full on dimpled smile; he nods and stares at Dean’s forehead. Dean gasps. Almost, Sammy, almost to the eyes. The kid’s gaze becomes hopeful. “Was it a good one?”
Dean Winchester isn’t wearing his emotions on his sleeve, so he’s definitely not blinking some wetness away. Is. Not. “It’s one of the best I’ve ever heard, Sammy, in a long time.” Dean’s not even making this up. It’s nowhere near as hard as he’d feared, to pour himself open like this. And if this is what he gets in return, man- his life is good. He lays every ounce of sincerity that he has into his next words. “The best, Sammy. Honest.”
He is so proud of his kid, he can’t even say. Or think. Sam probably gets it anyway - stupid smart kid of his - and rewards Dean with another small, amused smile. He nods at his big brother once, before settling his attention back to the book in front of him. Dean does his best not to continuously stare at the enigma that is his little brother. He doesn’t succeed. It might have been the most perfect hour he has spend in silence, ever.
Dean.
Dean moves into the the panic room. Sammy’s still sleeping on the floor, but Dean hopes he’ll switch to the cot eventually so he leaves it in. The second cot makes the room a little cramped, but at this point neither of them cares. Dean is getting desperate and Sam is getting worse. It’s the dreams that ruin things. Dean and Bobby don’t know why and all Dean’s precious research won’t help. A few weeks ago, Sammy started having nightmares. It’s as if now that the kid’s main focus isn’t just surviving the next day, his subconscious tries to come to terms with all the shit he’s been dealt. Or so Dean guesses, because while talking indeed is done, this is not a topic they have broached yet or will in the near future. Not with the rate Sam is fucking deteriorating, anyways. It’s not just the dreams themselves, although they probably play a huge role in this. It’s also the lack of sleep. The nightmares unsettle the kid to the point that he tries not to sleep at all, no matter how often Dean pleads with him to just close his eyes and give it another try.
Sam.
The nights are the worst. Sam’s having a lot of trouble with all the changes that constantly happen around him. Usually, he’s glad when night time comes because then he can try to understand his days and reflect on this strange new routine of his. But now Sam wishes he could somehow get rid of the nights, like, completely. He started dreaming of horrible things. Death and decay, the Now and the Box, all jumbled together and as real as if it were true. He never knows that he’s sleeping until Dean shakes him awake.
Whatever he tries to do, however much he tries to change what he’s dreaming of, the imagery stays heavy and dark. He doesn’t know which dreams are worst because frankly, they all terrify him. He doesn’t understand why it keeps happening, either. He’s with Dean and Bobby now and they are so much nicer than his old guards ever were. He never dreamt of these things back in his Box, although back then he’d been actually living his nightmares, at least part of them. This whole situation is exhausting and he is growing tired, both physically and mentally, of his new nightly routine. He has tried staying awake a few times. It works well enough, but at some point he can’t fight the fatigue anymore. This evening he’s closing in on such a point, he feels it in his weary bones. This would be the third night in a row that he’d go without sleep and he knows he can’t do it. The lack of it makes him slow and clumsy and stupid in his head. Before he closes his eyes, the last thing he wishes is for a night of blessed nothing. It’s not meant to be.
Sam dreams of Sara, of the first time she had turned in front of him and of the feeling of her soft fur under his hands. His fingers are sticky and when he looks at them they glisten with red. Sara crumbles to the ground, her proud neck broken and her eyes open but unseeing. Behind him, someone’s saying her names, her true names, over and over. It’s just as harrowing as the sobs that echo over from the left. Who is crying. Sam is crying. He dreams of the books they read, Sara and he. Of the shoulder she offered him to lean against and of her silvery laugh. The books rot away in front of him, and her laugh turns into a scream so agonized and terrified that he slaps his hands over his ears and begs her to stop. She doesn’t; she can’t. She’s dying. Always dying, over and over. She is living, loving, laughing; and then she is dead. He dreams of Bobby and Castiel and they are dying, too. Sam tries to close his eyes but he doesn’t have eyes. He has hands, though, big and dangerous hands. He can feel the taint of his soul stick to them. It permeates his skin and corrupts whatever he touches. It’s me, he realizes. This is my fault. It’s me who does the killing.
He can’t breathe for a moment, the truth is too terrible for trivial things like oxygen. Sam tries to get rid of his hands, to clean them at least, but no matter how hard he grinds them through the gravel, his blood keeps flowing and ruins everything. He begs the guards for help but they shake their heads at him, silently. He is beyond the hopes of being saved. Then his hands are gone, everything’s gone except for Dean who has been there all the time, as he just noticed. He wants to beg Dean to help him, but he can’t talk. Dean looks at him, hopeful and expectant. “Well?” he asks and smiles. But Sam can’t move, he is nothing, he has no limbs with which to hold onto his brother and no mouth to plead for him to stay. Dean’s face changes, he sees the truth now, the monster underneath. His smile fades and is replaced by disgust and horror. “You’re no brother of mine,” Dean says and turns away. Sam tries to run after him, to call for him, but all he can do is watch and despair as Dean is getting smaller and smaller until he is gone.
To the right, the bald man, Zachariah, stands and looks at him. His eyes pierce through his very soul. He is dissected by the angel’s unwavering stare, he is stripped blank until all of him is laid bare, neat and tiny, to be stored into Boxes and hidden away. The angel tilts his head and smiles, and Pain reverberates through his very heart. Sam starts to scream.
“Sammy. Hey, hey. Sammy, wake up man. Sam! Please, you have to snap out of it. Sam! Wake up, now!” Dean’s words guide him back to the panic room where Sam is lying on the floor, panting and sweating. Dean has one hand on his shoulder and the other one at the side of Sam’s face. It’s still evening, he can’t have slept for long; the light of late dusk filters down to them. It casts long shadows on Dean’s face and illuminates his horror-struck expression. He knows, Sam thinks, he has seen the monster. But he can’t let Dean walk. Here, he is corporeal; he has arms and hands. So he feels for Dean’s hand on his face and grips it tight in his own. Dean sucks in a gasp of breath, but Sam doesn’t let go. It is simple, really. Dean cannot leave him; Sam wouldn’t survive.
His brother’s expression changes; he looks close to tears now. These green eyes that are nearly overflowing strike a chord inside his chest, and Sam feels himself sound with it. It gets stronger and stronger and he has to screw up his face to hold it in. But it is ripping its way out of his chest; it sweeps Sam up, it breaks his hold, and shatters him to pieces. He hasn’t noticed, but his cheeks are wet with tears. Sam is crying, and the early silent shivers turn into sobs and gasps and outright bawling. Dean just left him but now he is here, and the opposite pulls of being lost and found wash away whatever self restraint he had left. It’s not pretty, all teary snot and drool and grimaces of pain and despair. The sounds he makes contain no words; this is too big for them. Sam grieves for all that he is and for all that he’s lost.
Dean.
When he’d heard the kid tossing on the floor, Dean had gotten up quickly. Sammy’s dreams have become more vicious of late and Dean hates what they do to his brother. Normally, the kid twitches under his blankets or mumbles something intelligible while he’s fighting his fears, but this night Sammy starts screaming. Dean stops dead in his tracks, horrified. All the kid’s loss and despair seem to cling to the sound. Dean nearly gets sick right then and there. At first, Sammy won’t wake up so he touches the kid’s face and leans down as close as he dares while he talks to him, trying to free him from this, whatever this is. When Sam’s eyes finally snap open, they mirror what Dean has heard in the scream. It’s heartbreaking. For a long moment Dean can’t move, but then he realizes he’s still holding on to the kid. Just as he pries his fingers from Sammy’s shoulder, his little brother grips the hand that still rests on his cheek.
Sam will push him away; Dean has overstepped their frail bounds and he curses at the setback this will be for both of them. But Sammy doesn’t. Instead, he holds on to him as if he fears Dean might vanish any second. This is the first time his little brother reaches out for him like that after his time with Zachariah. Dean feels his emotions getting the better of him, and if he wants to hide that fact from Sammy he needs to let go of him. He can’t, though, and he doesn’t want to, either. Through his blurry vision he sees how Sammy’s face screws up and then Sam starts crying. Dean is baffled; that’s two firsts in one night. Soon the silent sobs that wreck his brother’s frame become louder, and Dean is getting scared. Sammy seems to simply surrender to this, and while it’ll probably help him in the long run, right now Dean wishes he could make it stop. Sammy suffering has lost nothing of its terrifying quality.
The sounds that come out of his kid brother aren’t even close to anything human, it’s more of a primal release, all guttural moaning and outright bawling. Dean feels reminded of a documentary he once saw, holed up in a hospital with a badly broken leg. A film crew had shadowed families in war zones. Often enough, common people had fallen victim to the battles surrounding them; once, it had been a child. As he listens to Sammy now, he remembers how the family had reacted, how the women had thrown themselves to the ground, arms stretched to the sky, and wailed with agony to vast for words. That’s exactly what this is, he suddenly realizes and feels his guts clench. This is grieve on a level so deep that Sammy can’t escape. There is nothing for Dean to help him. All he can do is let it ravage Sam’s body and try to ride it out. Let the kid know he’s not alone, that Dean will be his rock. He tries not to lose hope that afterwards, enough of Sammy will remain to survive another day.
It sounds like his little brother is torn apart right next to him though, and it’s not long before tears of his own mix with Sammy’s. Dean carefully lies down next to him, strokes his hair with the hand that Sammy doesn’t have in a death grip, and starts whispering nonsensical reassurances. The kid responds by curling into Dean’s chest, pressed in close enough that Dean fears he might not get enough air with all the crying he’s still doing. He gently lays his arm across Sammy’s shoulder and so they stay, making sounds without words, for hours. Sam doesn’t calm down for a long time and Dean gets so scared that he resorts to check Sam for injuries several times. Just to occupy his mind and to make sure that Sammy’s still whole, at least on the outside. Every time he’s made sure that all his baby brother’s limbs are still attached and he’s not spurting any blood, his eyes settle back on the top of the boy’s head. His free right hand keeps painting small circles into the soft cotton that’s covering Sam’s back. His left arm has gone numb hours ago.
When Sammy finally goes silent and drifts off to sleep, Dean allows himself to blank out. There is nothing. He has nothing. Not a single thing to offer his brother, he doesn’t even know-. Anything. How is he supposed to make this right? What’s he going to do if Sam can’t come back from this, if there is nothing left to return back to? This is too much and Dean is not enough. He can’t make unsaid or undone what Sammy has been through. He couldn’t keep his brother from being taken, he wasn’t quick enough to find him and after everything, he might not be able to help Sam overcome this. This is fucking unfair, all of it! He feels like the universe could at least stop for a second, give him a moment to catch his breath. But the world goes on and passes them by, seven billion people oblivious to their tragedy.
What keeps Dean tethered to sanity that night is the steady thump-thump that Sammy’s heart beats against his chest and the slowly dawning realization that his little brother, finally, is back in his arms. Dean is equal parts relieved and appalled and as he stares into the dark he feels like the worst big brother ever.
Bobby.
They have come a long way, but Bobby knows that this battle is far from over. He’s had his doubts it could be won at all, but when Sam finally started responding to Dean, Bobby’d gone all in. It’s worth it too, he has no regrets. Sam is growing and healing in every way possible. But during the last few weeks, Sam’s past seemed to finally catch up to him. Of course Bobby talked things through with Dean, but they were both at a loss at how to fight nightmares. So sleep had been hard to come by for all of them; Sammy fighting through his dreams, Dean trying his best to help, and Bobby lying awake - wondering how to help his boys.
This night, things seem to come to a head. Bobby reads up on the new book about trauma studies that Dean had ordered. He wishes that this night, finally, the kids will get a good night’s rest. He’s just about to switch of the lamp on his nightstand when sounds of agony start echoing through the house. Bobby grabs a random selection of shotgun, machete, and holy water and silently sneaks toward the source of the noise. It’s coming from below. When he reaches the stairs to the basement and sees that it’s still plunged into dark, his worry notches up significantly. He edges closer to the sounds and it takes him a few embarrassing long minutes to realize that what he hears is Sammy. He doesn’t know how long he stands in the dark, dumbstruck, and listens to the gut-wrenching combination of one brother sobbing and the other one comforting, both of them utterly distraught.
Bobby doesn’t sleep that night and when Dean enters the kitchen the next morning, he knows that neither did the kid. They look like crap, both of them, red rimmed eyes in pale faces. Bobby hands over a cup of coffee in silence because there is nothing left to say. They’ve reached the end of their rope and now they’ll either find a way to swim in this ocean of shit or they drown. There is no way to pretty this up.
“You boys wanna have some breakfast?” Dean shrugs and pushes his mug from left to right.
“I’m not really hungry, Bobby. I’ll ask Sam though, maybe he wants to-” Dean shrugs again. He looks utterly lost. A few minutes later he still seems to try and figure out how to join the land of coherent thinking, and Bobby pats him on the shoulder and leaves him be.
“I’ll be in the study. Holler if you need me,” he says. Dean shrugs for a third time and Bobby tries not to kick a chair out of frustration when he leaves the kitchen. He almost succeeds. Bobby hates feeling like this, just as much as he hates seeing the toll this takes on his kids. There’s no way back though, and they only have this one shot; they can’t give up without probably losing Sam. Which would equal losing Dean, of that Bobby’s sure. He just wishes he could do more to help. He feels like he’s groping around in the dark, trying to make his way through a minefield by tapping the ground in front of him.
The boys don’t want breakfast, apparently. Or lunch. When Bobby makes his way down a second time, carefully evading creaking floorboards in the process, the phone rings in the study. He curses under his breath and hurries back up and then he doesn’t know what to think anymore. The note that pops up on his phone kindly informs him that he just missed a call from John Winchester.
go back (part ten) || Masterpost || continue (part twelve)