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"Okay, look, son, you gotta take it easy, all right? Dean's sleeping right now, and he needs his rest, so—"
Dean groaned and dragged himself toward awareness. Rufus's hunting cabin swam into focus, its four walls and meager comforts little improved by the light of day. Pain meds hadn't worn off yet, so that was something, but he didn't much like the edge of worry in Bobby's voice. "M'up, Bobby," he managed. He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth, and grimaced. He'd kill for a beer. "S'goin' on?"
He saw the problem right away, though. Sam and Bobby were faced off near the front door, and Sam had gotten himself worked up about something. He looked like death warmed over, and Dean remembered belatedly that they hadn't been a hundred percent sure Sam would wake up at all. Dean couldn't help the involuntary prayer of relieved thanks his heart sent up at seeing Sam vertical.
He didn't have time for more than that. Whatever was going on with Sam, Dean took one look at him and knew that if Bobby didn't get out of Sam's way, he was gonna get himself hurt. As for Sam, he was already hurt, the bandage on his hand torn and soaked through with blood. Dean struggled to push himself up. "Sammy, hey. Hey, man. What's goin' on?"
Sam looked over his direction, but the sound of Dean's voice didn't calm him any. If anything, it made things worse. Sam closed his eyes, squeezing them shut like he was in pain. At least he stopped fighting the hold Bobby had on him, but it looked to Dean like he was doing that thing again where he shut himself down, like he was trying to shut everything out and listen to some inner voice that would tell him what was real.
Problem was, Dean didn't trust that voice, not for a second.
"Sam!" he tried again. "Dammit, help me up, Bobby." He dragged himself to a sitting position and reached for his crutches.
Bobby shot him a look, then muttered, "Christ on a cracker. Between the two'a you, I swear." He let go of Sam and hustled over to help Dean to his feet.
Dean's leg pulsed with a deep, warning ache that left no doubt as to whether he should have stayed on the couch. A wave of queasy vertigo came over him as his stomach echoed the sentiment, but Dean pushed it down and levered himself a step closer to Sam, who had backed up against the wall near the door and was gripping his head like it was gonna explode, mumbling nonsense under his breath. "Sammy, come on, man. Calm down. Talk to me. How long's he been like this?" Dean demanded, without taking his eyes off his brother.
"Woke up about ten minutes ago, then all of a sudden he went off on me and started tearin' the place apart. Ripped his stitches open, but wouldn't let me look at it."
"Thought I told you to wake me if he came around."
Bobby shrugged, indignant. "Kinda had my hands full, case you hadn't noticed."
Dean managed to get himself across the room to Sam's side, close enough to see that Sam's muscles were trembling from exhaustion or agitation. Close enough to hear him muttering a string of incomprehensible words that might have been anything from an exorcism to the lyrics of a Jimi Hendrix song. When Dean laid a hand on his arm, Sam flinched.
"Sammy, hey. You're okay. We're safe."
Sam made a sound then that made Dean's stomach turn over. It was the sound of a little kid, scared and in pain, and hearing it come out of his six-foot-five brother chased away the last of Dean's painkiller-induced fog. Of course Sam couldn't just wake up from a blow to the head like that and be okay—not after everything else that had happened to him. Of course they didn't have that kind of luck.
"Can't," Sam said, a groan so quiet Dean almost wasn't sure he heard it right. "I can't, I can't." He folded in on himself, sliding down the wall to crouch there.
"Shit," Dean swore. He balanced awkwardly, trying not to fall over. His leg gave a low throb of pain that ran through his whole body. He ignored it to reach out with one hand, his fingers sliding into Sam's hair because it was the only part of him he could reach. "Okay, man, hey. Shh." Maybe you'd call it petting, what he was doing, but it wasn't like he had a choice. He couldn't exactly get down there on the floor with him.
Bobby hovered close, but knew enough not to touch Sam when he was this messed up. "Goddammit, Bobby," Dean said. "You gotta do something. I'm useless, here."
"I'm open to suggestions. I tried to get him to calm down, but you saw how that worked out."
"What happened to set him off?"
"Hell if I know. It's like he—" When Bobby hesitated, Dean shot him a sharp look. Bobby grimaced. "It's like he don't know where he is."
Dean's stomach sank. He glanced at Sam, who had curled himself into the smallest space he could. He had his head buried in his arms, his face hidden, but Dean could still hear him muttering to himself, like he was trying to talk himself down, or maybe drown someone out. "You mean Hell. You think he thinks he's—"
"Maybe. Damned if I know. Nothing he's said makes a lick of sense."
Dean's fingers tightened in Sam's hair. He could feel the tension running through Sam's body, and was all too aware of how hobbled he was, how screwed they would be if Sam turned violent like he had back at that warehouse. "We got anything that'll knock him out?" he asked in a low voice.
Bobby looked at him askance. "You sure that's a good idea? Kid's been unconscious almost fourteen hours."
"He's gonna hurt himself, Bobby. Worse, I mean. And I don't know about you, but I'm not likin' our chances of stopping him, not without clocking him one. We gotta get him calmed down."
Bobby shrugged. "We got morphine, I guess. But I sure as hell ain't goin' near him with a needle." He snapped his fingers. "Wait, I think I saw something that might work."
"Grab me that chair, willya?"
When Bobby had gone, Dean shifted around awkwardly to sit on the rickety old kitchen chair. "Man, this blows." Dean rubbed a hand over his face, feeling like warmed over crap. He was in no shape for this, and neither was Bobby, for that matter. All three of them were about as beat up and run down as three sorry fugitives could be. And if Sam had finally cracked up for good, what the hell was he supposed to do about it? Take him out back and put him down like a rabid dog?
Dean swallowed. He'd been trying for all he was worth not to let anything get to him. Ever since Lisa and Ben, he'd done his level best to shut himself down and focus on getting through the day, but things were only getting worse by the minute. Cas was gone, they had Leviathans on their tail, and now maybe the scraps of Scotch tape Sam had patched himself up with had given out in the face of one concussion too many.
"Sam, come on, man. Talk to me." When Sam didn't respond, Dean leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Listen, I know you been through a lot, okay? We both have. But I really need you to be okay. I can't do this without you."
"Here," Bobby said, a blast of cold air following him into the cabin. Dean's face warmed, and he hoped to God Bobby hadn't heard him. He sat up.
Bobby tossed something plastic at him, and Dean caught it. When he saw what it was, he said, "Nasal spray?"
"Fentanyl," Bobby said. "Should do the trick."
Sam's head came up then. "My dad's gonna rip your heart out," he said, all fierce bravado, and the hair rose on Dean's arms. "You just wait."
Fuck, as if seeing Lucifer wasn't bad enough— "Goddammit," Dean swore. "Bobby, you gotta help me. Come on, Sammy. Look at me. Look at me, man." He pulled the cap off the nasal spray with his teeth, then spat it out and got a hand on Sam's face. Sam resisted, jerking back from his touch. "Okay, hey. That's enough. We're not goin' there, you hear me?" Sam surged up, but Dean got the dispenser shoved up Sam's left nostril and pressed the plunger fast while Bobby struggled to hold onto him. "Hey, hey!"
"Aw, hell," Bobby grunted, as Sam threw him off and knocked Dean back, the chair crashing to the floor.
"Motherfucker!" Dean choked out. For a second, the pain was so bad, he almost threw up. The ceiling swam dizzily, and he thought he might actually pass out, but no such mercy. White knuckled, he grabbed onto his leg and tried to breathe through it.
"Dean?"
Dean knew distantly that Sam froze and stood over him, uncertain, but he couldn't spare much awareness for it. After an eternity, the pain receded slightly, and he cracked his eyes open to see Bobby between him and Sam, ready to do something stupid. "Bobby, don't! It's okay. He's not gonna hurt me. Right, Sam?"
"Dean?" Sam said again, sounding even more like a lost little kid. Confusion clouded his face. The drug hit his system, and he swayed.
Sam stepped back and sank onto the edge of the table. He looked dazed, but at least he didn't look like he was gonna rip anybody's throat out. Dean let his head fall against the floor for a minute until he had a handle on things. Then he swallowed and let out the breath he'd been holding. "Gimme a hand, Bobby."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure." He wasn't, but he couldn't let that matter. With a little luck he could fake it.
He revised the odds when Bobby pulled him up, but between the two of them, he made it onto the couch. "No, the table," Dean said when Bobby tried to rest his busted leg stretched out beside him. Once they had him settled with his leg propped up on the coffee table, he gestured at Sam. "Get him over here before he hits the floor, wouldya?"
"Easier said than done," Bobby complained, but Sam, the fight gone out of him, let himself be bullied and nudged over to the couch. Dean turned his face to get a look at him, and didn't much like what he saw.
"Sammy, you with me?" When Sam failed to respond, Dean shot Bobby a worried glance. "What was that stuff?"
"Strong," Bobby said. "Works fast, but wears off fast, too." At Dean's look, he shrugged. "You said you wanted him calm."
"Yeah, but he's practically unconscious." As if saying it made it sound like a good idea, Sam started to keel over; Dean caught him without thinking and eased him down half into his arms. "Jesus, Bobby—"
"He's okay," Bobby said, like by saying it he could make it true. "Better than knockin' you around and rippin' into his stitches."
"If you say so. Sammy, hey."
Sam stayed awake long enough to curl himself into Dean's chest, practically into his lap, like he was five and could still fit there somehow. "Shh, Dean, he's gonna know," he mumbled on a sigh. Then he checked out, his breathing evening out and all the fierce tension leaving his body.
Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, that's just great."
"What was that he was sayin'?" Bobby asked. "You think he was seeing things again?"
"Remembering," Dean said without thinking. "Stuff that happened when we were kids." Then his face heated, and he wanted to kick himself. "Doesn't matter. He was confused, that's all. Grab me the first aid kit, willya?"
"Let me do it, you moron. You rest." Dean ignored him. Together, they pulled the bloody bandage off Sam's hand and got him cleaned up, the torn stitches sewn closed. When they were done, Dean shook two pain pills into his hand and swallowed them dry, needing them too badly to care what Bobby thought.
Bobby took a hit from the whiskey bottle, then handed it to Dean without asking. He got to his feet, looking about as tired as Dean felt. "You good?"
"I'll live," Dean said. Having a heavy lap full of Sam wasn't helping, but he wasn't about to move him.
Bobby grunted. He looked at Sam, half asleep now under Dean's hands. Dean felt his face grow hot again. He met Bobby's look, daring him to comment, but Bobby's face was soft, furrowed with worry for both of them.
"Think you'll be okay for half an hour without me? I gotta ditch that ambulance before somebody sees it."
"Yeah, we'll be fine." He had no idea if it was true, but having Bobby see them like this made him uncomfortable, especially after what Sam might have given away. And if Sam started to wake up, he might make things worse. "Go on, we're good."
When Bobby was gone, Dean let himself relax a little. He tangled his hand in Sam's hair again, thumb stroking his temple near the edge of the bandage. His eyes fell on the crisp, new white gauze wrapping his brother's hand, curled now against Dean's thigh. "What'd you do to yourself, Sammy?" he murmured. He knew, though. Seeing the damage Sam had done to his stitches, he'd known.
It should've bothered Dean more than it did, the idea of Sam hurting himself to try and hold on to reality, but instead he felt weirdly touched. Sam had only done what Dean told him to. He was trying. Despite everything, Sam was still willing to fight, and that counted for something. But how much longer could he keep it up?
Dean wanted, more than anything, not to care any more. His brother had cost him more pieces of himself than he could count, but no matter how bad things got, Dean couldn't seem to shake the habit.
Dean's hand hesitated in its gentle motion. There'd been a time when he'd honestly believed it would always be the two of them. Despite everything that had happened, he wasn't sure he'd ever stopped believing that—not even when Sam jumped into that hole and left him alone in the world. If he had, they wouldn't be here now.
He let his thumb trace gently over Sam's eyebrow, a touch too intimate for who they were now.
Sam stirred. "Don't," he murmured, frowning his unhappiness. He was probably just protesting being woken up, but Dean let his hand fall. He sighed.
"Yeah, I know. I'm tired, too, man."
His gun lay on the table next to him where Bobby had left it. In that moment of sheer exhaustion and pain, he let himself really think about it for the first time. He thought about putting one through Sam's heart. The second bullet would be for him, of course, and the thought of those few seconds in between scared him, but what surprised him was how violently his instincts still rebelled against the idea. He could pretend otherwise all he wanted, but when it came down to it, Sam was still his weak spot. That was what had gotten them into this mess.
None of that mattered, not really. Even if he could make himself go through with it, he couldn't do that to Bobby. Which meant putting this whole shitty train of thought on hold until they were on their own again, and that wasn't gonna be for at least a few weeks, till Dean got healed up and on his feet.
He stroked Sam's hair back one last time, fingers tangling, and laid his head back on the sagging couch. Kid was gonna kill him, one way or another, no different than it had ever been. It was only the details that changed.
* * *
When he woke up again, it was dark out. Dean registered that along with several other things that filtered in through the muted but insistent throb of his leg.
He still felt like crap. His leg hurt with the dull misery that meant the pills were wearing off, and things were gonna get bad if he didn't do something about that. His stomach wasn't doing too good either, all things considered, and his head hurt like a bitch.
On the good side, though, he was stretched out on the couch with his leg up on a cushion, covered with a warm blanket. A fire crackled in the old fireplace, and coming from the upstairs loft, he could hear the familiar timbre of Bobby's snoring.
"Hey," Sam said, looking up from where he was reading nearby. "You're awake."
"Looks like." Dean squinted at him. "You, too, by the looks of things."
"Yeah." Sam studied him uncertainly. "I take it we killed it?" At Dean's frown, he elaborated, "The leviathan?"
"You don't remember?"
"Not much." He touched the bandage on his forehead. "I remember getting hit on the head. I woke up with you on the couch a while ago." Sam stole a look at Dean when he said that, then ducked his head like he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He coughed to clear his throat. "I remember the ambulance. Bobby saved our asses again, I take it?"
"Pretty much. What else is new, right?" Dean glanced toward the stairs and the source of the snoring. "He okay?"
"Think so. He was out when I woke up."
Which meant it was Sam who'd stretched him out and tucked him in. Dean felt a flush of gratification in spite of himself.
He ignored it and started to push himself up, but Sam got up and crossed the distance in two long strides. He grabbed his jacket off the chair and stuffed it behind Dean's shoulders.
"What do you need? One of those pills?"
"Gotta go to the can," Dean said with a grimace. He wasn't looking forward to it.
"Meds first," Sam told him, and Dean didn't argue when Sam put a pill in his hand and got him a bottle of water to wash it down. "You'll thank me in ten minutes."
It was more like twenty, but between them they managed to get Dean into the tiny bathroom, then back to the couch without incident. Sam was a steady strength beside him, letting him maneuver with the crutches by himself, helping when he needed it, and Dean could hardly credit that this was the same Sam he'd seriously thought about offing a few hours ago.
He couldn't think about that. Better to forget it, and pretend it never happened.
"You okay?" he asked, when they got him settled. "You were pretty messed up, earlier."
"Yeah?" Sam sat on the coffee table facing him. "I mean, I think so. Did I... did I say anything?"
"What, you mean like the answer to life, the universe, and everything? No, it was pretty much full-on buckets o'crazy." As soon as Dean said it, he wished he hadn't. It was the pain talking, or maybe he was a little too close to the edge himself. "You got hit on the head pretty good," he added.
"Good thing he didn't hit anything important," Sam said, not missing a beat.
"Yeah, good thing." It was an old joke, and it made Dean feel instantly about a hundred percent better. He looked at his brother, then, letting himself really see him for the first time. Sam looked like shit, pale and too thin, bandaged up and badly in need of a shower. No worse than Dean himself, he was sure. But Sam looked back at him, sane and present in the here and now, at least for the moment. He wasn't okay, and he might never really be okay again, but he was here because Dean needed him. No matter how bad it got, Dean owed him the same. "Seriously," he asked, his voice rough. "You all right?"
"For the moment? Yeah." Sam's lips quirked. "Best I can say right now."
Dean grunted. "I'll take it." He stretched back out, feeling the meds start to kick in. "Now, if you don't mind, I think I'm gonna sleep for about a month. And if the world ends again? Don't wake me."
"Deal," Sam murmured.
Dean might have said something else, then. He'd been holding it together by a thread for so long, he barely knew what to do with all these feelings that threatened to spill out of the box he'd shoved them into. It was a mistake of epic proportions to open himself up again, to let himself believe in anything good, and he knew that. But for a dangerous moment he wanted to confess the awful things he'd been thinking and swear he'd never do anything like that, no matter how bad things got. Then he wanted to grab onto Sam and pull him down and hold on for all he was worth.
Luckily, sleep came and saved him. Sam tucked the blanket around him, and it was the last thing Dean knew for a long time.
~ end ~