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Sam wasn’t lucid. He was anything but, slipping in and out of consciousness and nightmares and hallucinations.
He was vaguely aware of his surroundings, sometimes. He had his eyes screwed shut, against the fever and headache and every other awful, nauseating symptom that plagued him. He was shaking, or shivering. Hot and cold all at once and he wanted out but couldn’t move.
He was aware that he was alone, too, completely alone and locked up in the basement at Bobby’s like the the addict freak he was. He deserved to be kept away from the people that he would only hurt in the end. And that was fine.
Except that it wasn’t fine, and Sam’s throat hurt, from the screams he wasn’t even fully aware were leaving his mouth. He tasted blood, but as far as he could tell in his dazed state, it was only his own. For once, just his own blood in his mouth.
Sam was aware of being alone, until he wasn’t. The creak of the door opening sounded dulled behind the pulsing rush of blood roaring in his ears- only his own blood, in his veins, at the moment.
But he needed the demon blood, needed the filthy tainted stuff to pulse and flow inside of him too, because he was so fucked up already that it didn’t matter. He couldn’t get any dirtier, any more impure.
A sound cut through his desperate, fevered thoughts. He still didn’t open his eyes. He hadn’t been able to make out what the sound was. A voice, maybe? Probably not. He doubted anyone would want to speak to him.
He tried to listen, tried to force himself into awareness of the panic room around him. He couldn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t move. Didn’t bother trying to talk. He heard footsteps, or at least he thought he did. Maybe Dean or Bobby had gotten tired of him screaming and had just come to put him out of his misery.
And then Sam was aware of- something new. Some sensation, more gentle than any he deserved, cutting through the overheated haze of his thoughts. Something on his forehead, his cheeks, something damp and blissfully cool.
He felt himself relax under the touch. He knew who it was without looking, without any words being exchanged. He knew who he hoped it was, anyway, but of course he must be imagining this. Dean wouldn’t really be here, wouldn’t really want to help Sam. Sam knew he was probably beyond help, anyway.
But as he let himself relax, a little, he became aware of other things. The mattress was dipped down, a little, like someone was sitting there. That seemed like too much detail for a hallucination. But he couldn’t be sure.
He wanted to open his eyes, wanted to have at least some semblance of proof one way or the other. His eyelids were heavy, though. The light hurt, and the feeling of what might be a damp cloth over his face was so nice that he didn’t want to be proved wrong.
He didn’t want to have to see that he was only imagining this. The illusion that someone might care was more than he deserved, he knew that. He knew better than to hope it was reality.
And so Sam let himself relax, a little, hands he hadn’t realized were clenched into tight fists loosening. Everything stung, and burned, and ached, and hurt.
The cool sensation against his face was grounding him, keeping his from floating away completely into his own head. He didn’t know if that was a good thing, didn’t know if he wanted to be so rooted into reality, anymore.
Sam’s impression of time was skewed. But, some time later, the pleasant feeling stopped. Of course it did. Everything nice had to be cut short. Now the pain would return, and there was nothing he could do because he was chained into place and of course he couldn’t get away from the poison within himself-
The weight next to him shifted. He still couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t look, but he felt it, felt something- someone?- warm but not overheated like himself, next to him.
Sam wanted to push them away. They couldn’t stay, they would be poisoned too, would be tainted just by being in close proximity to something as deeply bad as Sam. But he couldn’t protest, couldn’t make the weight next to him leave.
He didn’t want it to go, not really. A light weight rested on his shoulder, like a person’s head. It took Sam a long, long moment for Sam to process that. The weight next to him, and partially on top of him. Holding him.
Sam didn’t have to open his eyes to know what Dean felt like, sounded like, smelled like. Dean was there, or at least an incredibly convincing hallucination. Sam couldn’t be sure, almost didn’t want to know. He just wanted to sleep, to rest, to relax.
And he could relax, now. Even through the haze clouding his mind, he knew that. Dean was there, was close to him, holding him. Was holding him together, because Sam was crumbling and falling to pieces from the inside out.
He wanted to cry. Maybe he was crying. He probably was. His face was damp, with tears or with sweat or with water from the cool rag before. He didn’t think it mattered, though, knew Dean would have already left if he was going to. He had seen Sam’s worst, lower than worst, and yet he was still there, still holding him together.
Maybe Dean was crying, too. Sam didn’t want to know, if he was.