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Sam is in the hospital for six weeks-- thereby beating Merrin's record.
Dean sulks and scowls his way through Sam's absence. Cas is some help.
"These things take time," he says.
"We ain't got time," Dean snaps. "And I want my brother to come home."
He's at least allowed to visit, and for the first two weeks he carves out three hours every day to hang out with Sam in his sad little white room.
"I'm sorry," Sam says at least once each visit. He's thin and his eyes are dark, focused on things Dean can't see.
"Quit saying that."
On the fifteenth day, Sam reacts badly to a new medication. He curls up in bed, gritting his teeth through muscle spasms, and Dean keeps him company. There are nurses all over the unit, but Dean checks Sam's fever himself; taking care of Sam is his job, god dammit.
"Scrap the side effects for a second," Dean says. "How's your melon?"
Sam seems reluctant to answer. "Not a big difference," he admits finally. "I know you want me to get better, I'm sorry--"
"It's okay," Dean says. It's not okay. But it's also not Sam's fault. "This crap, it's trial and error. They haven't found the right thing for you yet, that's all."
The spasms die down after a while, only for violent nausea to take its place. Sam struggles to sit up, but he can't get off the bed fast enough. Dean holds him steady as he vomits onto the sheets. He figures he should call a nurse now.
"Fuck Risperidone," Sam mutters, voice shaky. He and Dean sit off to the side while a group of nurses strap on sanitary gloves and clean up the mess. Sam has an emesis bin that he hugs to his chest. It's nothing more than a pink plastic tub.
"You want me to find you a real trash can?"
Sam swallows. "Not allowed-- the lining, you can suffocate yourself with it."
Dean can't find the right thing to say. "... Oh."
Sam bows his head and gags. Dean rubs his back.
"Dean," Sam rasps.
"I gotcha, I'm right here."
"I-- I don't..." Sam's lower lip quivers and Dean's maternal instincts turn up to eleven.
"Sammy, breathe."
Sam closes his eyes. "I don't want you to see me like this."
Dean's brows knit. "You want me to wait outside? Or I can come tomorrow--"
"No."
Fresh tears spill down Sam's cheeks, and Dean hasn't felt this lost in a long time. He had forgotten just how awful it is. He's completely powerless in the face of Sam's pain, and it wrecks him.
"I can't..." Sam won't even look at him. "Visiting me, it's-- it's too hard on me, Dean. I-- I can't."
The floor might as well have collapsed and thrown Dean into free-fall. "What?"
"I'm not me, right now, and I don't want you to see it. All I can think of is how I'm not getting better, and how disappointed you must be each time you leave..." His voice cracks and he breaks off into silence.
"I'm not disappointed, man." Dean moves his hand to Sam's shoulder. "C'mon, look at me."
Sam's eyes are bloodshot. Tired.
"This is something I have to do on my own," he says. "Please, I-- please understand."
Dean's heart had plummeted somewhere around the first floor of the building, and it takes him a minute to find his words.
"So, you don't want me to visit anymore."
Sam shakes his head.
"What if you need me?" Dean hears how pathetic he sounds and he doesn't care.
"I can call," he offers. Quiet and meek. "This isn't on you, Dean, it's nothing you did. I promise. Just-- I gotta do this alone."
Dean is half-dead and heartbroken when he makes the walk back to his car.
-
He stays in contact with Sam's doctor when he can, talking through any updates. It's a slight relief to gain any information-- better than floating in a Sam-less void.
What pisses him off, and what he repeatedly rants to Cas about, is the system of shifts in place. Sam has multiple attending nurses each day. Visits from the doctor are limited but also somehow invasive and overly personal. He'd almost punched the doctor when Sam came out of his psych eval in tears; these people were supposed to help, not hinder.
"He's a sensitive guy, Cas," Dean says. "He needs... connections. And these jackasses come and go so fast it probably makes his head spin."
"Your healthcare system is quite flawed," Cas agrees. "But what other options do you have?"
They're the ones with the medicine. They're the ones with the twenty-four hour care. They're the ones who can save Sam, not Dean. And it makes Dean furious.
Dean struggles not to call the nurse's office; his fingers itch to dial the number, but he knows the results he would get. They would put him on hold and tell Sam he has a phone call, and Sam would decline. The whole situation drives Dean fucking nuts.
Cas stays with him when it gets late because the nights are worse. Things quiet down and Dean's thoughts eat through him, cannibalistic, breaking him down brick by brick. Cas is a mediator; his gentle pragmatism and his awkward concern soothe Dean's cyclic self-deprecation.
And, naturally, Dean drinks. That helps, too. Sometimes he catches a sad expression on Cas's face, though, and he'll feel guilty.
They sleep together most nights. Or, rather, Cas holds Dean while he sleeps. Dean is aware of the homoromantic atmosphere and the potential escalation to homoeroticism-- waking up with his dick pressed against Cas's thigh seems horrifying on every imaginable level-- but he needs the comfort. He needs it. And Sam isn't there to ask questions or make Dean reflect on himself. Sam is in a locked ward and Dean's body is splitting in half with Sam gone; now isn't the time for a sexuality crisis. Dean's too tired, too old for that bullshit.
"What if he never comes home?" Dean rests under Cas's arm, head on his chest. He can hear Cas's heartbeat.
"He will." Cas sets down his copy of Little Women (Dean had spent most of the day poking fun at him for it). "Modern medicine has come a long way. The treatment for psychotic disorders--"
"Woah, woah." Dean pulls away from Cas. "He's not psychotic--"
"Psychosis is not inherently violent, Dean," Cas says. "Sam can be his typical nurturing self and still be diagnosed as psychotic."
"Don't call him that."
"Your denial could potentially be harmful to him."
Dean doesn't give a shit about what Sam is. He's never given a shit. Sam could have decided that ruling Hell was his birthright and Dean would've-- albeit begrudgingly-- gone along with it. Sam is his true north.
What Dean does give a shit about is Sam's "I'm a freak" narrative, and the possibility that this disastrous line of events will only reinforce it. Sam has been psychic, Boy King, demon blood junkie, Lucifer's vessel-- Dean doesn't want Sam to add psychotic to the list. He doesn't want that term taken home from the ward. He doesn't want Sam using a diagnosis as an excuse to hate himself.
"I don't want him to feel bad," Dean says. "I don't want him going through all that crap again."
"Then don't you think we should normalize it instead of avoiding the word like it's some sort of curse?" Cas doesn't break eye contact, and his stern and imploring gaze makes Dean antsy. He can't say no.
"Okay, okay-- but when he comes home, let him choose, alright? Let him choose what he wants to call it."
Cas resigns himself to his book and Dean settles in next to him.
"I hope he's okay," Dean mutters.
-
Sam feels like shit.
They-- the almighty ambiguous they-- have him on Seroquel now, which works great. No devil poking his head around corners, no maggots in his food. But once his body adjusts to the dosage, they increase it again and he's relaunched into side effect central: dizziness, dry mouth, and relentless nausea. It's brutal and he's fucking frustrated. There's only so much vomiting a person can do before it takes an emotional toll.
A doctor comes in, not his, and asks him how he's been doing. Sam glances up from the emesis bin long enough to say he's peachy, doc, thanks for asking, before returning his forehead to rest on the rim. The contents of his stomach slosh around at the bottom. Gross.
"You want any ginger ale? Some water?"
Sam gags and shakes his head.
"You should try and drink something, Sam. Unless you want an IV."
Sam hates ultimatums. Sam hates throwing up. Sam hates, briefly, this innocent doctor whose only purpose is to help him.
"I can't," he manages.
The doctor pulls the desk chair next to his bed and sits beside him. Her hand is soft when she touches him, and she makes circles between his shoulder blades. The tension in Sam's body loosens. He's safe.
"Based on what you've told us," she says, "and how you've been improving, I think it's safe to say that this is the last increase you'll have to go through."
"Thank God," he croaks, and the doctor smiles. He wishes he could remember her name.
"We'll keep you here a bit longer to ensure the side effects die down. We don't want you leaving only to come back with medication issues. But other than that..."
"I'm going home?" Sam hears it-- that weak flicker of hope in his voice.
"I'd say by the end of the week," she answers. "You've been here long enough, Sam, and you've done so well. It's about time you go home, don't you think?"
He blinks away hot tears. "Yeah."
The doctor stands, tells him to press the call button if he needs anything and that his nurse for the evening would be in soon to take his blood pressure.
"Wait," he says, stopping her on her way out. "Um-- don't tell my brother until you're sure."
-
On a Thursday afternoon, Dean gets a call from the hospital. He holds the phone out so Cas can listen along with him. By the end, Dean is pretty choked up.
"Sunday," Dean repeats. He can't breathe. "About damn time."
"We'll be there," Cas says when it's clear Dean can no longer form coherent sentences. "Thank you."
He hangs the phone up for Dean, drops it on the floor, and lets Dean crumple into his arms.
"See? He's coming home," Cas murmurs. Dean squeezes him tight as he weeps into Cas's shoulder. "I told you he'd come home..."
Dean is weak with emotion the rest of the day. He even breaks down trying to open a beer, and Cas does it for him.
"You're an angel," Dean tells him that night.
"Yes, I am."
"No, no, you--" Dean looks at him, really looks, deep and soul-searching the way Cas does. "Thank you."
"... You're welcome."
For a moment it seems like Dean wants to kiss him. For a moment Dean thinks he's going to. But Sam is coming home and Sam is first and foremost. Dean can't do this. He can't do it to Sam.
"This is-- Cas, man, I'm sorry."
Cas doesn't need clarification. He knows.
-
Sam stuffs all his things into his backpack and spends Sunday morning looking out his window. He hasn't been sick since Wednesday and the medicine wasn't wearing off like the others had.
They said he might feel scared going home, and that it's normal to feel as though leaving the hospital will return you to your untreated state. But the healing that took place here wasn't us, they said. It was you, Sam.
When Cas and Dean come through the door, Dean damn near runs to him. Sam's rib cage knocks against his chest as he pulls him close. Sam inhales the smell of leather and whiskey and gunpowder. Dean can't wait to rid Sam of this foreign hospital scent-- too sanitary, too cold.
"I missed you, kid," Dean mumbles, because it doesn't matter that Sam is twenty-nine and taller than Dean by a solid two inches. None of that matters.
"I missed you, too," he says, "and I'm sorry I couldn't--"
"Shh, none of that. I get it." Dean pulls back and sizes Sam up. "You're one skinny son-of-a-bitch, huh?"
Sam's smile is wobbly from fighting the urge to cry, but they're happy tears.
"Cas." Dean clears his throat. "Remind me to stop for burgers on the way home, yeah? Sam needs, like, ten of 'em."
"Of course." Cas turns to Sam for the first time since they'd arrived. He looks nervous. Guilty, maybe. "Hello, Sam."
"Hey, Cas." Sam reaches for him and Cas steps forward, hesitant, but relaxes into the gesture when Sam hugs him. "I'm not mad. I promise."
"Your forgiveness means a great deal to me." Cas has a soft smile on his face, one that barely crinkles the corners of his eyes. "I'm glad you're feeling better."
"Yeah, me too." He pauses. "How much trouble did Dean give you?"
All the blood drains from Dean's face and he gives Cas the smallest shake of the head.
"I... don't believe I'm at liberty to say," Cas replies. Sam laughs and claps him on the shoulder.
"Thank you-- for taking care of him."
"Hey, I'm right here," Dean protests. "I was fine, alright? I was great. It was six weeks of porn, on your laptop--"
Sam looks at him, soft and serene, more peaceful than Dean had seen him in months, and he gives up the act.
"Let's get you home," Dean says.
None of them turn back once they leave the hospital.