Work Text:
“He’s gonna be fine.”
It takes Sam a moment to realize it’s not his own voice that he’s hearing in his head.
“Come on, look at me, kiddo,” Lucifer purrs. Sam does not look. “That’s okay, bud. I get it. You’re in a rough spot right now. I get why you’re ignoring me.”
Sam digs his thumb into his palm. The voice doesn’t go away.
“I just want you to know Bobby’s gonna be alright. You wanna know how I know? Because I said so.”
The monitors around Bobby’s still body (too still; but not corpse still) beep. The lines rise and fall. It’s a pale imitation of life. He’d seen someone look like that before. Back then, Dean couldn’t die because Sam wouldn’t allow it. But too many have died since then: Dad, Ellen, Jo, Rufus. Bobby is their rock. It should be impossible for him to die, too. Yet...
There’s no sixth sense telling him that Bobby’s holding on, no ghost of comfort telling him to wait, hold on, just wait for a miracle. He’s alone on an iceberg, surrounded by cold unforgiving seas.
“Sam,” Lucifer says sternly. “Dean’s right. Think about it. Things can’t possibly get worse than they already have. You’ve already hit rock bottom once, haven’t you? How could it possibly happen again?”
Fingers appear in the corner of his eye, reaching for his cheek; he remembers too late —not real— and flinches away from the Devil’s touch. Lucifer chuckles warmly and pulls away.
“I knew you were listening,” he teases. “Now, I want you to say it with me: Bobby is going to be fine.”
Just for a moment, Sam’s eyes slide shut. Bobby’s hospital room disappears. Bobby, broken and fading, disappears. In his mind, Bobby is as whole and happy as any hunter can be. He’s there for him. He’ll always be there for him.
Sam wants so badly to believe.
He digs his thumb into his palm as hard as he can. He opens his eyes. “This is real,” he whispers to himself. There’s no one else around he could be speaking to after all.
“Come on, Sam!” Lucifer exclaims, too loud and incredibly close. “What happened to all that optimism? What happened to always staying on the bright side of life? Look at that man—” He points at the bed, to Bobby’s unmoving form. “—and tell me that he won’t pull through! He’s Bobby Singer! The man, the myth, the legend! You’ve survived worse! He’s survived worse! It’s not like he’s going to die in a hospital bed just like your real father did—”
Sam’s breath hitches. Lucifer lets his arm fall to his side.
“Oops. But think about it, Sam. Would God be so cruel?” Lucifer crouches by the chair. Sam tries to keep his eyes fixed on too-still Bobby but his eyes and his eyes start watering from the strain. “Dean says Bobby will be fine,” he says softly. “And so do I. And I have never lied to you. Have I, Sam?”
It’s true. Lucifer never lied to him in the cage. Not once.
Sam jumps to his feet and starts walking. He needs Dean. Dean may lie to him, but at least Dean’s real. Despite how awful reality is at the moment, real is what he needs.
*~*
Sam eventually finds Dean in the bathroom. He’s at the sink but not washing his hands, the water flowing over his fingers and swirling in the basin. Dean glances up, face completely blank; but once he realizes it’s Sam, he quickly starts scrubbing his hands under the faucet, as if that was his intention all along.
“’The hell you doing in here?” Dean grunts, flicking his hands dry. The movement draws Sam’s eye; it’s the only reason he catches the splash of red across his brother’s knuckles. “What if the doctors want something, huh?”
“Your hand,” Sam blurts. In a moment, he’s holding Dean’s injured hand in his own, examining it. It’s a familiar injury—Dean’s punched glass more than once and Sam’s usually the one patching him up after. “What the hell happened? Was this when you were talking to that guy? What did he say to you?”
Dean rolls his eyes and yanks his hand back, sticking it and its partner under the air dryer. “I told you, nothing,” he grouses. “Barely a scratch.”
A lie, as predicted. Strange how it’s almost reassuring. “Someone should take a look at that,” Sam insists. “One of the nurses can—”
“A goddamn scrape isn’t going to kill me, Sam!” Dean snaps.
They stare at each other for a long time, the weight of Dean’s words turning the air between them oppressively heavy. Dean looks away first, sighing, and drags a hand (the uninjured one) down his face. “You know what I mean,” he says evenly.
Sam nods stiffly in agreement. Yes, he knows what he means. Funny how it doesn’t really matter. “You should still put something on it,” Sam says. “Antiseptic or something.”
Dean laughs nastily. “Why, so they can charge me an arm for the alcohol and a leg for the bandage? Forget it.”
Sam can’t. “I just want you to be okay,” he says quietly.
Abruptly, Dean slams his palm hard against the hand dryer. The entire unit rattles but miraculously stays on the wall (a small, but noticeable dent, however, reveals how perilously close it came to collapse).
“I’m fine!” Dean shouts. “There’s nothing wrong with me! If you haven’t noticed, I’m not the one with a goddamn bullet in my head!” The bathroom door swings open. Dean doesn’t even turn to look before barking, “We’re busy!” The door abruptly shuts and doesn’t open again.
“Dean, please,” Sam entreats. “I just want us to be on the same page here.” The expression on Dean’s face is ugly, a twisted facade of frustration and denial. Despite the silent threat on that face, Sam doesn’t back away.
“What page?” Dean snarls. “The one where you’ve already given up on him? Unlike you, I actually believe in the man! So, no, we’re not gonna be on the same page.”
“Please,” Sam repeats. He knows he shouldn’t beg, not when his brother’s like this, but he can’t help it. It’s not going to be okay. He knows it is his bones, which are familiar with the feeling of impending disaster. He doesn’t want Dean to lose hope, either, but he can’t stand being alone in this. He just needs a glance of acknowledgment, just one touch. “Please, I—”
I need you. The words are poison in the back of his throat and he swallows them down.
Sam grabs Dean’s bicep. Dean jerks but doesn’t pull away; Sam’s holding on too tightly. “Goddammit, Sam—”
Suddenly, they’re grappling. Sam has the advantage, quickly backing Dean against the wall and grabbing for his arms, his shoulders, his face; anything he can hold on to. Bobby’s dying. For the second time, his father is dying. He just needs someone to hold on to.
Dean tries shoving him away but Sam can’t let him go. “Pull it together!” he snaps. “Bobby’s going to be—”
Bobby’s in a coma, Dean’s in denial—why is Sam of all people the only one living in reality right now? Everything’s all backward. They are supposed to be taking care of him. He just wants someone to stand with him for once. Why can’t anyone ever just be with him?
Sam still can’t say the words. Instead, Sam slams his mouth against his brother’s, saying everything he needs to without making a sound: I need you.
Dean stills. Sam pulls back, but not far. He kisses Dean again, lips falling on the curve of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “Please,” Sam whispers. “Please, please...”
His mouth travels over Dean’s face until he once again finds Dean’s lips. Dean eventually lets him in, though the embrace remains shallow, more desperation than passion. They’re both panting as if it’s otherwise, though, Dean now clutching Sam as hard as Sam is holding him. They’re on the same page, finally.
It’ll be okay, Dean’s kisses say as he reaches up to cradle Sam’s jaw. It’ll be okay. It’s not okay now, but it will be. It’s all Sam needs to hear, even if he’s not actually hearing it. He could weep from the relief.
“This is real,” Sam murmurs. “This is real, this is—”
A hand slams hard enough against Sam’s sternum that he’s sent stumbling back, banging against the sharp edge of the vanity hard enough to bruise. He’s too stunned to protest or retaliate, looking wide-eyed at Dean who glares at him with clenched fists.
“You think I want this to be real?” Dean shouts. Sam can only stare numbly as Dean pants in fury. When Sam doesn’t answer, he turns away, running both hands through his hair. “Fuck,” Dean swears under his breath as he storms out of the restroom—
Leaving Sam alone.
*~*
Sam returns to his seat outside Bobby’s room. Dean’s not there. He sits down slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the bed and the monitors.
“So, you’re back,” Lucifer drawls. “I’m guessing things didn’t go so well with Dean?”
Sam knows better than to answer. When a hand comes to rest on his knee, he doesn’t flinch away.
“It’s alright, Sammy,” Lucifer croons gently. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
He knows what’s real and what’s not. He knows how important it is to keep that line bright and clear. But sometimes a cold comfort is better than none at all.