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The scale's mocking him. Sam knows that it's inanimate, but just by sitting there in its spot against the wall, it's mocking him. The light hits it just right, so the silver spots on it gleam, the balances and the little finishing touches… And Sam can't even look at it without blushing and hugging himself around the middle. The bulbous, fleshy middle — wrapping his arms around it makes Sam feel worse, because it's his stupid stomach's fault that he and Dean are even at the hospital.
Sure, it's not like his stomach went and made Dean ill, but… so help him, Sam can't help thinking that it's his fault they wound up here, waiting for doctors to decide if Dean's got stomach flu, or food poisoning, or God only knows what else. He shouldn't have been so self-absorbed. He shouldn't have let himself get so fat, because obviously, it's making him slow. He should've paid more attention to his brother. Dean thinks it's his job to look out for Sam, and Sam should've repaid the favor… Aside from Dad and Bobby, he and Dean are all each other have.
And Dad… oh, Dad — As he paces around the exam room he and Dean got shunted into, as he worries at the hem of his sweatshirt, Sam can't stop himself from thinking that Dad's going to storm through the door and kill him. He wouldn't be surprised if Dad tried to kill him… Dean's sick, and they had to go to the ER, and Sam tried to run away again…
He knows it's stupid to blame himself for this. He knows it's stupid to try and find some way that everything is his fault because he tried to run away for the umpteenth time… but that doesn't stop Sam from thinking over any possible rationale he can get his brain around… The biggest obstacle is that this attempt was spontaneous. Not a planned out thing, not like Flagstaff… just an emotional thing. He got emotional, he got stupid, it's not as though he was willfully awful.
Maybe that'd matter to Dad, but Sam doubts it. He already regrets trying, and not just because he bust the button off another pair of jeans while going along with his own ridiculous scheme. But he and Dean fought this morning, before homeroom started — and all because Stan Fischman, one of the jerks in Sam's class, passed them in the hall, and called Sam Chub-chester and Weight-chester and Lose-chester, and Dean got pissed when Sam told him not to bother making a fuss or standing up for him.
And around lunchtime, when Sam snuck out to the bleachers so he could eat by himself, he decided that he had to leave. Not just leave the lunchroom — no one expected him to eat in there anyway; he hadn't since the day he and Dean had started at this school. No matter what he did, no matter where he sat in there, it always felt like someone had their eyes on him. Someone was watching him eat. Someone was whispering about how Sam Winchester was such a fat pig… Even sitting by himself didn't help that much. Sam doubted he could keep his bologna sandwich down.
And he knew it. He didn't want to admit it, but he knew: he had to leave. He wasn't happy. He hated hunting. He just made Dean worried and miserable and upset, which was made so much worse by how, if he'd just lose the weight, Sam wouldn't get picked on, and Dean wouldn't need to worry, but the double-chin and the bulge around his middle never went away.
He ran, and he trained, and he skipped meals, and all Sam ever got was fatter. Not that he could put a number on it, but it wasn't exactly rocket science, figuring out that he was still fat. Noticing when he put weight on was slightly harder, if only because Sam never noticed until his clothes were far too tight. He'd made losing weight his New Year's Resolution and here they were, almost Valentine's Day, and he hadn't made any progress.
And even when Dad wasn't around, Sam could hear John's voice reprimanding him for everything he put in his mouth, calling him out when he even looked at food: "You really want another slice of pizza, Sam? You had two already…"
"You're getting kinda chubby, Sam, maybe you should let Dean have your dessert… I mean, your dinner was pretty big without it, aren't you full?"
"For the last time, Sam: I'm not buying you the goddamn Lucky Charms. They're too expensive and you haven't lost ten pounds like you said you would — I know you're trying, Sammy, I know it, but you're only getting bigger…"
"We might need to buy you a scale one of these days, kiddo. Look, I know you don't want to, but you've been dieting for how long? A couple months now, right? And how much weight have you lost? …That's right: none! You haven't lost any weight at all, and don't even think of telling me you might be cursed again: I checked, Sammy. You're not curses…"
"I'm not trying to hurt your feelings, Sam — you know I'm not, don't you? …It's just — being this heavy isn't healthy and with the life we lead… it might get you killed one of these days. …I'm just worried about you, Sammy."
Yeah, because using euphemisms like "chubby" and "bigger" made Sam feel any better about being a big fat-ass. Because saying that he didn't want to hurt Sam's feelings meant that John never did. Because Sam never went to bed hungry, after lying to his Dad and Dean that he'd eaten enough earlier. Because Sam never skipped breakfast and cried all through lunch because, once he started eating, he couldn't stop, he was just starving… Because the fact that he was fat meant John needed to remind him of it all the time…
Not that Sam would even think of contradicting John on this matter.
Sam knows his Dad's right — of course he does — but nothing ever seems to work. He hasn't seen a scale since August, when he and Dean got their annual, start-of-school physicals done, but the doctor tut-tutted him for clocking in at one-seventy-five then and Sam knows he's put on weight since then. Sam just hopes that he doesn't get sick soon, because he doesn't want another doctor to tell him that he weighs too much. It hasn't worked yet, but he has faith in his diet… It'll have to work eventually, if he just keeps at it, like he promised Dad.
Even worse, Dean had only weighed two pounds more than Sam back in August — two pounds more, and he towered over Sam by a foot or more, so it looked good on him. The only thing Dad'd had to say about Dean's body was that he was too concerned with getting abs, focusing too much on the little bit of fat he thought he had on his stomach. It's your arms and legs that have to be stronger, when you're hunting, John had explained on the drive back to the motel room. Your body's fine, Dean. If you really want to improve on something, work on your biceps.
And making things worse still, Dean's been getting skinny lately… Even before he got sick, he was thinning out — the angles of his cheeks and hipbones have gotten sharper, and Sam's started dressing in their motel room's bathroom, just so Dean can't see how his thighs knock against each other, how his belly bounces as he tries to wriggle into his clothes, how his chest's so soft that he's grown man-boobs, and how he has to lie on the floor and suck in his gut to even think about getting his jeans done up.
It's just a bonus that doing this gets him out of having to look at Dean's body. Sam has to weigh more than Dean by now; he knows it, and it shows. Where he's dumpy, and jiggly, and disgusting, Dean is lean, muscular, and so hot that he can't escape the girls. They always notice him, at every new school Dean and Sam go to, within an hour of them transferring there. The only question Sam still has is exactly how much fatter than Dean he's gotten, and that (temporarily) stopped being important as soon as Sam decided to make another go at getting out of here.
After classes ended today, Dean had an hour in detention to serve. Even if he planned on sneaking out as soon as possible, this left Sam with just enough time to get started. He knew that he couldn't get far enough away from school before Dean would skip out… He was on foot, and he could move fast enough to hunt, but he needed too much adrenaline for that… He didn't have it now.
So, Sam climbed one of the trees out by the soccer field (a Herculean effort, since he had to pull himself and his backpack up), instead of going to meet Dean in the student parking lot. It was cold up there, and it sucked, but at least he had a layer of extra padding, like a polar bear. Yeah… he wasn't just chubby — he'd been trained as a hunter so, no matter what he looked like or how fat he was, he'd seen more and done more than most of them ever would… like Stan Fischman's mom.
Sam cracked a private smile, humoring himself with his unspoken joke (one he wouldn't speak because he knew it was terrible and a one-way ticket to even more social exile)… Until he dropped a hand to his middle, prodded at the blubber he found there and remembered that the thing keeping him warm was also the reason why he couldn't button up his flannel or zip up his jacket. His jacket was a hand-me-down from Dean, from when Dean had been kind of chubby… Sam remembered the year or two of Dean's pudgy phase, before he hit his growth spurts and got all lanky and angular like he is now. Sam remembered how, before he started putting on weight he couldn't lose, Dean had been the one with a belly and occasional issues zipping up his jeans.
But Sam couldn't zip the jacket up, and that wasn't because he was a polar bear. It was because he was heavier than Dean had ever been. That was also why he could feel a wide strip of bare skin down by where his belly flopped over the waistband of his jeans (also formerly Dean's, practically shrink-wrapped onto Sam, and cutting deep, harsh red marks into Sam's flesh as they strained to hold him in). He tried pulling his t-shirt and his sweatshirt down, but they rode up again, exposing that same bit of skin.
Even without anyone there to judge him, Sam sunk back into the nook of where his branch met the trunk, tried to hide from the entire world. He blushed and, even though it warmed him up, he wished he could just feel cold again, instead of feeling so ashamed of himself that falling out of the tree and dying would've been a preferable option. Not only was he a monster-hunting freak, he had to be a monster-hunting freak with no clothes that fit him. A monster-hunting freak with a weight problem, who did everything he could to get in shape and still wound up fat.
At least the tree had one benefit: its leaves still hadn't grown back, but Sam blended in enough that no one saw him curl up, put his forehead to his knees, and start crying.
He stayed concealed up there, rubbing his hands together and occasionally pulling one shirt collar or another up over his mouth. He stayed up there for an hour and a half — not totally unexpected, even if he hated every uncomfortable minute of it. It wasn't enough to wait out Dean's detention in He knew Dean would go looking for him, but Sam still waited, expecting to see the Impala leave, planning to am-scray out of there once it did and get over to the bus station…
For once in his history of these attempts, Sam even knew exactly where he was going: he'd take a bus to the nearest big city, and go from there to Utah, and then he'd use one of the stolen credit cards to pay for going to some special school for fat kids out there. It was the perfect plan — completely foolproof. Had Dean not come looking for him, had Sam not shifted the wrong way, busting his button off, had it not rocketed down to Dean's feet, Sam would've gone through with his scheme to get gone and stay there.
Dean couldn't even chew him out, though. He looked down at the button, then glared up at Sam, and he opened his mouth… but puke came out instead. Dean dropped to his knees, puking even more… and before Sam knew what was happening, Dean collapsed in the snow.
Sam sighs now, wandering around the tiny hospital room like the movement will calm him down, or like he might find his way to Narnia if he keeps moving. Even if Dad doesn't kill him for Dean getting sick, there's the fact that Sam had to drive them here from school.
Not that it was a long drive, but Sam's still only thirteen. Driver's education hasn't even entered the discussion yet, and the last time he got behind the wheel, as a reward for doing well on a hunt, he almost crashed the car in a parking garage. He probably would've, if Dad hadn't jerked the wheel and shouted for Sam to throw on the brakes. Only Dean's allowed to drive the Impala, and Sam knows that, and Dad will skin him alive for driving her, Sam just knows it.
And even if the not-technically-an-accident happened two months ago, and even if Sam's a little taller, a little safer, so he's better behind the wheel, it took a lot of work for Dad to scrounge up enough money for the truck. Even if they went to Bobby's, it'd take ages and a lot of money for them to fix the Impala, if Sam went and got her banged up. And there are so, so many reasons why he shouldn't ever try to drive the car.
And, logically, Sam knows that he doesn't need to be afraid. Dad's off on a hunt — a difficult one, Dean said; something about it maybe being demons, or something else that's more than just a routine salt-and-burn. Whatever it is, Dad probably won't be back for at least another week or two, but still… Dad loves that car, not as much as Dean does but probably more than he loves Sam (at least, Sam's sure of that — not that he's jealous of the Impala, she's just a car; he knows she's just a car… but Dad's forgotten Christmas before, and Dean's birthday, and Sam's birthday, and he never, ever forgets anything about the Impala).
Fussing around in his shirt, trying to keep it from riding up on his stomach, Sam tries to remind himself that he's being ridiculous. Dad probably has freaking Spider-Senses for when the Impala's in trouble. And never mind Dean being sick, Dad would totally come running if he thought his precious car was going to get hurt. Sam jumps at any noise in the hallway, even though most of them are just nurses checking in on him and Dean, making sure they're okay and Dean hasn't thrown up again.
He's tried taking deep breaths, he's tried reminding himself that Dean's okay — that he just has food poisoning, or stomach flu, or something — and that they made it to the hospital without getting caught and that Dean's going to be fine, but any noise that approaches still grates on his nerves. He still startles when someone gets too close to the door.
One of the nurses even got treated to Sam shouting that he's sorry, sir, he's so, so sorry, but Dean was puking, and then he fainted, and Sam knows he's not supposed to drive the car, but Dean couldn't because he fainted, and he's sorry before he finally turned around and saw that it wasn't John Winchester, just some middle-aged, ponytailed lady in brightly colored scrubs with cartoon puppies on them.
"You're fine, sweetie," she said, tapping her pen on a clipboard. "I just wanted to ask… we tried calling your dad and he didn't pick up. Is there anybody else we can call for you?"
And though he doesn't know if Dad and Bobby are still talking this week, Sam does know that they aren't far from Sioux Falls, so he gave the woman Bobby's number, said he was their uncle and she should call him. They might hit a snag if someone tries pulling up legal records to verify that, but Sam can't even consider that possibility without thinking that maybe some overzealous nurse is already calling child services, and he and Dean are going to get taken away from Dad, and separated, and Dean's seventeen so he wouldn't even stay in foster care that long, and Sam would never ever see him again—
Sam's chest feels tight — he gasps, doesn't feel any air go into his lungs, gasps again — he flops into a chair opposite Dean's bed, tries to focus on the good things, tries to take deep, full breaths and remember that everything's okay, tries to resist the temptation to smack his head into the wall… But good things, good things, right…
Thank God, Dean hasn't puked again — Sam doesn't know if he could handle watching Dean retch again, not after he fell to his knees. But, then again, Dean hasn't really moved at all. He's curled up on the hospital bed, sleeping like he's dead, and looking paler, thinner, more drawn than Sam's okay with. He can see all of Dean's freckles, standing out stark against his pallor, and they make Sam feel like he might be sick himself. Not because he feels ill — one of the other nurses even took his temperature, just to make sure he hasn't come down with whatever Dean has — but because… he should've noticedthat Dean wasn't well.
Oh, Jesus Christ, why does thinking of good things have to be so hard?
Sam tries to avoid it, but he still ends up replaying the fight in his head. There's no one to talk to, with Dean still asleep, and he brought his backpack up, but he can't focus enough to read. He toes his shoes off, just to be respectful, then curls up on the chair; he rests his forehead on his knees, and closes his eyes, and waits until his breath settles down… And for want of something to do with himself, he mulls the whole scene over: "It's not worth it, Dean, okay?" he said that morning, yanking on Dean's shirt, trying to keep him from running off down the hall after Stan Fischman and beating him to a bloody pulp.
Wide-eyed, anger draining the color from his face, Dean rounded on Sam. "Not worth it? Someone who goes out of his way to make you miserable like that douchebag is not worth it — I'm sorry, Sammy, but are you freaking kidding me?"
His knees jittered underneath him, his skin felt so itchy that he just wanted to scratch it all off, but Sam licked his lips, and swallowed, and shook his head. "I'm not kidding you, okay? Just drop it and leave him alone already — he's not worth it!"
"That little bitch picks on you and you want me to LET him? What the Hell is wrong with you?"
Sam flushed, his whole face going red and hot. He mumbled something that he doesn't even remember now, tried looking down at the floor so he wouldn't have to meet Dean's eyes and see the shame in them. Feeling it glare at him from his brother's face was bad enough. Hearing it in Dean's voice when he demanded that Sam repeat what he'd just said was worse. And Sam couldn't keep his lower lip from quivering as he was forced to acknowledge that looking away from Dean didn't really help at all.
Anyone else in his position would get to see the linoleum floor and their feet, but not Sam. He saw some of the ugly, institutional gray-and-dark green tiles, sure, and the rest of his view got obscured by the swollen, ugly belly protruding in front of him — by the t-shirt, tight and stretched out against it, straining to stay in one piece. He couldn't see his sneakers around it, not without lowering his neck until it hurt. His head felt like it'd gotten dunked under water, and a shiver coursed down his back.
His eyes threatened to mist over — had he and Dean not been in the middle of the hall, Sam might've let them — but there were people around, standing at their own lockers, absorbed in their own conversations… They probably weren't listening, but the thought that they might be made Sam want to run and hide in the janitor's closet. Trying harder not to cry, Sam bit on his lower lip. Oh, God, he thought, oh, God; oh, God; oh, God, this can't be real — but it was. He dropped a hand down to his middle and poked at it, just to reaffirm how real it was.
Oh, God… Sure, Sam knew that he'd put on weight. He knew he was his class's pet fat-ass. He knew that he did everything he could and never lost a single pound… but his belly was bigger than it had ever been. It seemed that way, anyway, and all Sam wanted to do was book it out of there, head for the Impala or the janitor's closet or someplace, anyplace where he wouldn't have to go to class in thesetoo-tight clothes, with people who'd see him…
Instead, before he could even try to run, he felt Dean grab him by the wrist. "Sammy, please," he said, his voice softer than before, trying to be nice (something Sam wanted to trust so very badly). "If something's wrong, you've gotta let me help you, right—"
"Nothing's wrong, Dean—"
"Then let me go and beat that guy—"
"Will you just shut up already? Let it go! He doesn't—"
"He was picking on you — he does it every day, and you seriously want me to let it go—"
"But he's right, Dean!"
By now, a few people had turned to look at them — a few kids from Sam's English class, a girl Sam recognized as someone Dean had made out with a couple times — and Sam blushed again, acutely aware of every place where his clothes didn't fit right, of every set of eyes that was paying attention to him… Sighing, shaking his head, he jerked his hand out of Dean's grip.
"Just… he's right about me, okay?" Sam insisted, lowering his voice just enough to make this conversation as private as it should've been. Dean tried to argue, tried to say that no, he wasn't, that Sam didn't deserve that kind of crap, but Sam cut him off: "Stop it! Don't you get it, Dean? Don't you get any of it? …Stan's right about me, and it sucks… Believe me, I know it sucks. I think I know better thaneverybody that it totally sucks, but you're not doing me any favors by trying to pretend I'm not fat!"
Sam knocks his forehead against his knees and tries to ignore the rest, think about the now instead of the part where he stormed away, where Dean tried to follow him, where he all but told Dean to go fuck off. It doesn't really work. Sighing, he stands up again, returns to pacing… He keeps looking over to his brother's bed, trying to see if Dean's roused at all.
He hasn't, and he doesn't. Every time Sam looks at him, Dean's almost perfectly still. All he does is roll over onto his side, probably tangling himself up in the IV or something. Sam thinks that he should check, but… he doesn't want to screw something up, like accidentally severing the line or something. Anyway, when the nurse in cartoon puppy scrubs comes back, she checks Dean over and doesn't have to fix anything, so… Sam's probably just worrying too much.
On her way out the door, she lets Sam know that she got ahold of Bobby, who said to leave Sam in charge of making Dean's calls until either he wakes up or Bobby gets there. As much as he can't wait for Bobby to take the responsibility off of his shoulders, Sam's not even sure he wants to see his not-blood-uncle. It's been six weeks since they were last at the Singer Salvage yard and he's still squeezed into these busted jeans… Sam doesn't want to face Bobby when he doesn't even know how much weight he's gained, just that he's a freaking blimp…
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Sam notices the clipboard hanging off the end of Dean's bed. Picking it up, he takes note of all the numbers, the chicken-scratch little notes, and Dean's name up at the top… a patient information chart. He knows that he shouldn't keep looking — Sam's cheeks go pink with the knowledge that he's basically invading Dean's privacy — not even basically. He's outright invading Dean's privacy by doing this… but he's curious, and it's there and… one-sixty-three.
Whoever took down the information for this chart has horrible handwriting, but Sam can still make the numbers out: Dean weighs a hundred and sixty-three pounds. That's fourteen less than he weighed in August, and twelve less than Sam weighed then, to say nothing of how much he has to weigh now… For the first time in a while, Sam looks over at the scale, unmoved from its position at the wall.
For the first time period, it doesn't look like it's mocking him. Rather, it looks like it's challenging him, egging him on, asking him what he's so afraid of… Sam frowns and puts the clipboard back. Grazing his teeth against his lower lip, Sam glances around the room, out into the hallway… There's no one around. Good — no one can come in and spy on him. Just to make sure he has his privacy, Sam closes the door.
As he takes off his sweatshirt, tosses it underneath the windowsill, into a heap with his jacket and his flannel, he feels his certainty waver. He still wants to know, he still wants to put a number on his weight and end this whole stupid question, but at the same time… Sam finds his belly harder to deny when it's this obvious. It's not as bad as when he's naked, but his t-shirt's so flimsy that it might as well be skin. A white, cottony layer of skin.
When did it get so big — that's what Sam wants to know. He hesitates in front of the scale, looking from it to his stomach, then back and forth again… Maybe it's the lighting, or how terrible today's been in general, but Sam could swear that he looks fatter than ever. He palms at it, lifts it up and shakes it, prods at it and loses his knuckle in the flab…
No, he's not hallucinating. Unless Dad's been wrong this whole time, he's not cursed either. Sam's really let himself get so big… When Dean's well again, they're going to have to use one of the stolen credit cards to buy Sam new clothes. Even if he wants to get on a diet, he can't just go to school in these jeans, and they were the biggest pair of hand-me-downs he had…
Sam sighs and shakes his head, pushes his mop of hair back off his face. He's stalling. He knows he is. He's exhausted with himself for it, too… Closing his eyes, tonguing at his lips, Sam steps up on the platform. He opens eyes to adjust the balances, ticking them along their little posts until everything evens out… at one-ninety-four.
One-ninety-four.
Sam whispers it to himself as though this will somehow make it more real, make him feel less like he's started dreaming without being aware of it… He resets all the balances, steps off, has a sudden thought that maybe he should just go crawl down to the bottom of a carton of ice cream. Nothing he's tried before has made him any thinner, and he's put on almost twenty pounds since August… Maybe he's just doomed to be a big fat-ass. The thought gets his face red and hot again… No, no, he can't just accept that… Dad really will kill him if he stops trying to keep his weight down…
But he's thirty pounds heavier than Dean, Sam reminds himself as he starts pacing again. Thirty pounds heavier than Dean and only six pounds short of two-hundred… It's not like his weight has anywhere to go but down, even though it never moves—
"So, what's the damage, little brother?"
Dean's voice smacks Sam upside the head. He startles so much that, as he whips around, he falls on his ass, finds himself on the floor, staring up at his brother and scrambling for any kind of retort he can think of: "I — you — Dean, just — I'm pretty sure it's against medical advice for you to just be sitting up like that? Aren't you, like, supposed to be resting or something?" Dean shrugs and it occurs to Sam: "Wait a minute, how long have you been awake."
"Not that long, bro, don't worry. Just long enough to know you're worrying about your weight like a freaking girl." That joke is totally half-assed, and in poor taste, all things considered. Likewise, Dean's chuckle is dry, weak, but it's still there, and it's accompanied by one of Dean's signature smirks, and even if he's still sick, the show of his familiar traits settles Sam's mind a little bit. Dean's fine… he's okay and himself and everything's going to be fine.
Except for the weight part.
Dean repeats his original question — So, what's the damage, little brother? — emphasizing it at random points, just to get it through Sam's head that he owes his brother an answer. His cheeks flare up, bright red with shame, as he ducks his head and says, "It's… I'm up to one-ninety-four. …What am I gonna do, Dean? I'm bigger than you, I'll be bigger than Dad soon, I know it, and Dad… Dean, he's going to kill me when he gets home — I'll probably be two-hundred pounds by then, if it's really as bad a hunt as he said, and I'm trying, you know I am, but it just gets worse, and, and… and I—"
Sam feels his chest getting tight again, the way that's familiar to him by now, the way he knows is leading up to an anxiety attack — but it releases sooner than he expects. Sam closes his eyes as he feels something warm and welcome descend on him… It takes him a moment to realize what's going on, but when he does, he sinks into Dean's chest. He wraps his arms around Dean's shoulders and returns the hug for all it's worth. He even finds it in himself to mutter that Dean really shouldn't be out of bed yet, he fainted and he's not well, and he should rest…
"And Bobby's on his way, and he won't like it if you're out of bed against your doctor's orders, and—"
Dean shrugs and pulls Sam in tighter. "Yeah, right, Sammy," he scoffs. "I'm not getting back in bed 'til you know that I don't care what Dad says: I say you don't have to change a thing."