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Sam wakes up in the middle of the night, but, for once, it’s not from a nightmare. He feels terrible, physically. He rolls over, clutching Mr. Buttons, the stuffed bear that Dean gifted him, to his chest. He feels like he’s going to throw up, only he knows he isn’t going to for real. He rolls over again, and the uncomfortableness is too much to bear.
He climbs out of bed, still holding Mr. Buttons, and leaves his bedroom. He knocks on Dean’s bedroom door, which is right across the hall from his. He waits a beat before calling out, “Dean.”
He doesn’t like the way his voice sounds, but it’s necessary to speak because his big brother is a heavy sleeper. A knock on the door isn’t enough for him to stir.
“Come in,” Dean calls. Morning voice sounds nice on Dean and bad on Sam, what else is new?
Sam opens the door and climbs into bed with Dean, who’s still blinking his eyes open.
“What’s up, kiddo?” he asks. “Bad dream?”
“Feel sick,” Sam says softly, picking up Dean’s hand with his own and positioning it on his waist. Once it’s there, Sam goes back to hugging Mr. Buttons with both arms. “Can’t sleep alone.”
Dean hums sympathetically. “‘m sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles, still not entirely awake. He gently squeezes Sam’s waist, always understanding the assignment. “Try t’ relax. Lemme know if you get real bad.”
Sam nods once and closes his eyes. He lets the safe weight of Dean’s hand on him lull him into as comfortable as a sleep he’s gonna get tonight.
He wakes up in the morning to Dean lightly shaking him, his hand in the same location Sam put it last night. He feels worse than he did before. He groans, turning his face into the pillow.
“That bad?” Dean asks.
Sam turns back to face Dean as he nods miserably.
“I’ll call in sick from work today?”
Sam nods. “Yes, pl’se,” he mumbles, eyes falling shut again.
“Okay,” Dean says. He lightly squeezes Sam’s waist. “Still okay?”
Last night’s consent has expired. Sam nods, renewing it.
“Okay.” Dean rubs Sam’s ribcage with his thumb as he asks, “Want me to get you some medicine, sweetheart?”
Sam nods slightly. “Yes, pl’se.” He gets polite whenever he’s sick, which Dean has told him he finds adorable.
“Be right back.” Dean leaves the bed then, traveling to the bathroom to get the yucky liquid medicine because Sam can’t swallow pills.
Sam holds Mr. Buttons a little tighter while Dean is gone. Luckily, he isn’t for long.
The bed dips as Dean sinks down beside Sam. He gently instructs, “Sit up for me, baby.”
Sam obeys, Mr. Buttons sliding down to rest in his lap. Dean portions out the sticky, pinkish medicine into the cap and holds it out for Sam. Sam takes it, brushing his fingers against Dean’s as he does so. He holds it up to his lips and takes a small sip. Even worse than he remembers.
“Gotta drink up, Sammy,” Dean encourages, placing a hand on Sam’s thigh. “You got it.”
Sam successfully gets the medicine down and hands Dean the empty cap. Dean sets the medicine on his bedside table and turns back to Sam.
“Good job,” he says. “Want a kiss well done?”
Sam nods. “Yes, pl’se,” he says, sick Sam’s favorite catch phrase.
Dean kisses him on the cheek. He pats his thigh. “Gonna call the diner now,” he informs, removing his hand from Sam’s leg as he grabs his phone.
Sam leans against Dean as he listens to him call in sick from work, privately grateful that he gets Dean all to himself today.
An hour or two later, Sam is still lying in Dean’s bed, Mr. Buttons sitting on his stomach. Sam is holding his paws, gently keeping him in place. Dean is lying right next to him, close enough for their arms to touch. Dean is scrolling on his phone, the volume low, but high enough for them both to hear. Sam occasionally looks over at the screen if he hears an audio he likes or if something sounds funny (”Wait, scroll back up, pl’se… Hehe… C’n you open the comments?”), but for the most part, the brothers are in their own little worlds. If Sam was really sick, he’d be curled up into Dean, who’d be petting his hair. He isn’t that bad though, especially because of the medicine. For now, he’s okay with just being close to his brother.
Sick days with Dad as his “care”giver would never be like this. Dad would never in a million years bother calling in sick to stay home with him and take care of him; he didn’t even do the latter when Sam wasn’t sick. It’s always been Dean.
Eventually, Sam rolls over onto his side to face him. He sets Mr. Buttons down onto Dean’s stomach, trusting his brother to take care of his bear, so that he can hold onto Dean’s arm with both his own. He rests his forehead against Dean’s shoulder and closes his eyes and takes a nice little nap.
He doesn’t dream of anything, which is a blessing. He used to have quite vivid dreams with big stories, until the assault happened, and it was all nightmares. Nowadays, he either has terrible dreams or no dreams. He’ll take the latter any day.
He wakes up not long after. He stays still for a moment, considering how he feels, before letting go of Dean’s arm and moving away so he’s still facing him, but they’re no longer touching. He reaches over and retrieves Mr. Buttons, who’s safely sitting where Sam left him, without touching Dean.
A minute later, Dean, who was probably waiting for Sam to wake up but wanted to scroll a few more times, turns off his phone and sits up. “Want some soup, sweet boy?”
Sam hums, thinking. “Yes, pl’se,” he settles on. He’s hungry, and he’d prefer soup over something more difficult to eat, especially because he’s sick.
“All right.” Dean pats the space on the bed between them instead of Sam’s body, recognizing the change in Sam’s comfortableness with physical contact like he’s always so good at, before leaving the bedroom once more. He leaves the door open and Sam can hear him humming to himself while he cooks.
Dean comes back a while later. Leaning against the doorframe, he softly says, “Soup’s ready. Wanna watch TV while we eat?”
Sam nods. After a moment, he adds, “Gilmore, pl’se.”
“All right,” Dean says, and Sam can hear the gentle smile in his voice. “Just come on out when you’re ready, sweetheart.” He leaves and presumably brings their soup to the living room and gets the episode that Sam left off on cued up.
Sam lays in bed for just another minute before getting up. He tucks Mr. Buttons underneath Dean’s blanket. He’ll need to remember for later that Mr. Buttons is in Dean’s bed, not his own. If he thinks, for even a second, that he’s lost Mr. Buttons, he’ll cry.
He goes out to the living room and sits close to, but not touching, Dean on the couch, grabbing his bowl of soup. Dean presses play on the TV and leaves the remote in Sam’s reach.
As this is Sam’s third rewatch of Gilmore Girls, he knows everything that will happen in the episode, so he can get away with not paying too much attention to it. He sips his soup nice and slow, and the TV is mostly background noise; he tunes back in whenever a scene he particularly likes happens.
Sam gets to thinking, though, which is never good these days. He catches himself and tries to focus to the show instead, but he can’t do it. His brain is foggy because he’s sick, and he can’t do it.
“Dean,” he whispers.
His brother looks over in time to see Sam putting his half full bowl of soup on the coffee table. “What’s wrong? Does your stomach hurt?”
Sam shakes his head. His stomach does hurt, but that’s not the problem.
“Oh,” Dean says, a bit gravely. If Sam isn’t in any immediate pain, there’s only one thing that can be wrong, Dean knows. He softens his voice and says, “I’m sorry, kiddo.”
Sam just hums and puts his head in his hands. He doesn’t think he can be touched right now, which is inconvenient because that usually helps him. Getting touched by Dean reminds him that he’s not getting touched by him. “Can’t stop,” Sam mumbles, remorsefully. Can’t stop thinking.
Dean puts his own bowl of soup onto the coffee table and gets down on his knees in front of Sam to meet his eyes. “It’s gonna be okay, kiddo. ‘m right here.”
Sam sniffles. “Shit,” he mumbles. He hasn’t cried about this in a few weeks.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean reassures him. He pauses the TV. “Something trigger you?” he asks gently.
Sam shakes his head. He doesn’t think so. Just his stupid brain.
“Okay. That’s okay, sweetheart.” That’s how Sam knows the pet names aren’t a joke for his brother anymore. He uses them in serious situations. “Can I do somethin’? Get you Mr. Buttons?”
Sam sniffles. “Yes, pl’se…” he whispers. He can’t touch Dean, so that stuffed bear, that gift from Dean, is the next best thing.
Dean nods. “Okay. I’ll grab him for you. Be right back, baby boy.”
Sam takes an uneven breath. “Your room,” he reminds Dean after he’s taken a few steps.
“Got it,” Dean says back. He returns no more than a few seconds later, Mr. Buttons in hand. He sits on the couch beside Sam and hands him the bear, careful not to let their fingers brush.
Sam clutches Mr Buttons to his chest and buries his face in his fur. He cries softly for another moment or two, but he eventually lets out a sob. He’s half crying because of the memory of the assault, half because he’s having the memory and crying about it in the first place. He feels so weak.
But Dean is there, right beside him, whispering soothing words. “It’s okay, Sammy, you’re okay. I’m right here.”
Sam finds this whole thing so unfair. There’s no way the person who did this to him spends this much time reliving it. And, Sam knows now, that he didn’t do a thing to incite this. He didn’t deserve it, and he doesn’t deserve it. He just doesn’t understand why this happened, and why this is happening. “Not fair,” he shouts, or tries to. It comes out barely audible. “Not fair, not fair.”
“I know. I know. You’re right, Sammy, it’s not fair, not at all,” Dean says, keeping his voice as gentle as he physically can. “I wish I could take it all away… God, that probably doesn’t mean much to you, huh? But I would if I could, Sammy. I would.”
A sob wracks Sam’s body. His feelings are 10 times worse because of his sickness. He feels horrible on all fronts.
“I’m so sorry, Sammy,” Dean whispers. “My sweet boy. You’re gonna be okay.”
Sam takes a few gasping breaths and tries to compose himself. He lets out a few more sobs before he manages to stop those, but there’s nothing he can do about the general flow of tears and snot.
He sticks out his hand, and Dean, slowly—gently, not hesitantly—interlaces their fingers. It’s Dean, Sam reminds himself, still unsure how he feels about physical contact at the moment. Just Dean. It’s Dean. It’s Dean. It’s just Dean.
Dean squeezes Sam’s hand three times, solidifying that it is in fact Dean. All at once, Sam knows he can handle physical touch.
He sniffles once and sets Mr. Buttons sitting upright on the couch beside him before throwing his arms around Dean’s neck, entirely in his personal space. Dean’s arms find their way around Sam’s waist, his hands resting on his lower back. He traces Sam’s spine with his right hand.
“I got you,” he murmurs. “You’re safe, sweetheart. Just you and me.”
Sam nods into Dean’s shoulder and sniffles again. He’s practically sitting in Dean’s lap at this point.
“No one’s gonna hurt you ever again. I’m gonna take care of you.”
It’s a nice thought.
They hug for a long, long while. Sam still feels like he’s gonna throw up, for multiple reasons now, and there are still tears streaming down his cheeks. Eventually, he says, in a tired voice, his energy drained, “H-Hey Dean?”
“Yeah, baby?”
Sam takes a shaky breath. “Um. Y’know Paris from-from Gilmore Girls?”
“The blonde chick, right?”
Sam nods, which Dean likely feels more than he sees.
“What about her, kiddo?” Dean asks, softly rubbing his back in an absentminded motion.
“She wants t’ go to Harvard, right?” He waits for Dean to hum before continuing. “But, she d-doesn’t get in. And, she thinks it’s because she ha-had sex.” His voice breaks towards the end there.
“Babe—“
“And-and-and I know it’s a completely different scenario,” Sam rushes out, cutting off Dean’s sad baby. “But, I think I…” He takes a big breath, and his next words come out quieter. “I think this ruined my life, like it did hers.”
Sam’s confession hangs in the air for a few agonizing seconds, neither one of them sure of what to say.
Eventually, Sam feels Dean’s body shaking against his own. Dean is crying. Or, rather, he’s trying and mostly failing not to. This is rare, mostly because Dean doesn’t want to make things about himself by crying in front of Sam about Sam’s trauma.
“You can cry,” Sam whispers, trying to sound reassuring. He doesn’t want Dean to have to be strong all the time, not for him. And he knows it hurts to see your brother in pain. And this was a lot to put on a 20 year old, especially one who didn’t sign up for this. Dean wasn’t the one who chose to have a child, and he certainly never chose to have one this damaged.
Dean, at least, listens to Sam, beginning to cry more freely. And so, they sit there on the couch, crying and hugging—and this is just ridiculous. Dean doesn’t deserve any of this.
Neither does Sam, of course, but it’s different. Sam doesn’t know how; it just is.
“Give yourself time, sweetheart,” Dean eventually says, his voice steady. “I promise you, you’ll be okay. And I’m gonna be with you every step of the way, okay? You’re gonna live a long, fulfilling life. It’s gonna be everything you’ve ever dreamt of. I swear.” He gives Sam time to process that before continuing. “I’m not saying this’ll go away. But you’re strong, baby, you’re so strong. You are seriously the…” Dean pauses, his voice wavering for the first time. “You are seriously the bravest person I know. And you know what else? You’re the best person I know. And I know your life so far has been terrible…” Dean lets out a laugh that sounds somewhat self deprecating, as if it were his fault Sam’s life is the way that it is. “But, I promise you that, someday, whoever the fuck is up there is gonna give you what you deserve for once.”
Sam closes his eyes and squeezes Dean with all his might before slowly releasing him, sitting back so that they aren’t hugging but their knees are touching.
As soon as Dean’s hands are free, he brings them up to his face and wipes his tears. As he does so, he asks, “Do you believe me?”
Sam reaches up and grabs Dean’s hands, pulling them down from his face and holding them on their legs. Leaning forward, he kisses both of Dean’s wet cheeks. He doesn’t often kiss Dean—it’s usually the other way around—but it feels right in this situation. “I believe you,” he mumbles, half trying to convince Dean, half trying to convince himself.
Dean rests his forehead against Sam’s. A moment later, he softly says, “I’m gonna get us some tissues, okay?”
“Okay,” Sam whispers. Before letting go of his big brother, he squeezes his hand three times, because he didn’t do it back earlier. He places Mr. Buttons in his lap again as Dean leaves.
He returns shortly after, a few tissues in hand. He hands some to Sam to blow his nose and wipe his face, using the rest on himself. It’s pretty disgusting, but they’re brothers. Dean disposes of their dirty tissues and comes back to the couch.
Sam presses play on the TV, continuing the Gilmore Girls episode they were only halfway through, but he doesn’t intend to watch. He lays down on the couch, his feet in Dean’s lap and his arms around Mr. Buttons, to go to sleep. He’s sick, and he’s exhausted. It’s all he wants to do right now.
Dean wakes him up around dinner time. His feet are no longer in Dean’s lap, indicating that Dean was up and about since Sam fell asleep.
He hums and looks up at Dean, who’s standing over him, vaguely registering the episode of Gilmore Girls playing on the TV.
“We gotta get some food in your belly, Sammy Boy,” Dean tells him. “All you’ve had today was half a bowl of soup.”
Sam sighs. “Don’ wanna.”
“Not hungry?” Dean asks gently.
Sam shakes his head. “An’ I feel like crap.” Both because he was sick, and because of his breakdown earlier.
“Can you at least try?” Dean implores, keeping his voice calm.
Sam hums noncommittally. Food doesn’t taste good to him anyway, but it’s worse when he’s sick. And, he really isn’t hungry. He knows he should eat something though, if only to make Dean proud of him. “I guess.”
Dean hits him with his pretty smile. “Good boy.” He straightens up and says, “I’ll make somethin’ easy.”
Sam sits up and leans over the back of the couch to watch Dean in the kitchen. “Hey, Dean?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Thanks.”
Dean turns to face him. A soft smile on his face, he says, “No big deal,” before turning back around.
“No, like… everythin’,” Sam explains. He’s grateful for everything all the time, but now that he’s sick, he feels like saying it. “You’re basically my dad. And, I dunno, you didn’t ask for that. But you do it anyway. So, jus’ wanted to say I appreciate it.”
Dean clears his throat and doesn’t turn around. “I know, kiddo. But, uh, seriously, you don’t gotta thank me. I want to do all this stuff.”
Sam stares at the back of Dean’s head for a few moments. He sets Mr. Buttons down and pads into the kitchen. He wraps his arms around Dean and lays his head on his shoulder. “I wanna thank you,” he says softly.
Dean takes a deep breath. He pats Sam’s hand, which is on his stomach. “Okay. Just ‘cause you’re sick, I’ll let it slide. Don’t make it a habit.”
Sam chuckles. He wants to lay down again, but he continues hugging Dean. “I love you,” he whispers.
Yet again, the confession hangs in the air for a few seconds. They don’t use that word, ever. The silence isn’t uncomfortable or scary this time, though. They both know what Dean means to fill it with.