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He's only half conscious when the door bursts open; he doesn't care until he hears his brother's voice:
"Sam!"
Hallucination, Sam figures. Still not worth lifting his head.
Then there's a slight rush of air, vibration in the floor as the figure drops to his knees before him.
Sam flinches away from the hand that reaches for his face. Nothing that has touched him in the past day and a half, two days, did anything but hurt.
But when he sees the look of devastation, and behind it a desperate ineffable love, he lets himself question it. He lets himself hope, believe it's possible.
"Sammy, it's me." Dean lays his fingers on Sam's cheek and with the other hand smoothes his hair back. This is no hallucination.
"You're real? You're alive?"
"Yeah, I'm real."
Just as the sun began to shine again two days ago, Sam's world comes back to life.
"Dean..."
*
"We gotta get you cleaned up," Dean says as he helps Sam limp down the stairs, finally back in Lebanon. He does a visual inspection. "Shower?" he suggests, dubious.
"Yeah," Sam agrees. He doesn't want to ask for help but he knows he needs it. And for the love of God he's not going to sit down again any time soon.
"I got you, little brother."
They make their way to the larger of the Men of Letters' bathrooms, where Dean helps him strip. There's a deep, grinding ache whenever Sam moves his arms, after having them cuffed behind him for what, thirty-six hours? Not that he hasn't experienced a hell of a lot worse, nor that the rest of his body isn't just as bad, but his brother is determined to spare him unnecessary pain.
Dean tears the tattered v-neck right down the front and slips it past Sam's shoulders, down his arms along with the light green button-up. He tosses it all on the floor and goes as far as unbuckling Sam's belt before letting him do the rest—minimize the humiliation Sam is feeling.
"Hang on, let me take a look at that." Dean squats down to examine the bullet wound on his brother's thigh, once all garments have been discarded.
"The guy sewed it up two days ago. It's fine," Sam tells him.
Dean looks up at him and gestures.
"Yeah, and what about your foot?"
"I think you're supposed to put a plastic bag over it when you shower."
"We should check it out now. That bandage is gross."
"We already got my clothes off, can we just...?"
Dean rises.
"Alright, alright, I'll go get one. Hang tight." He leaves, closing the door behind him.
With stiff legs, Sam takes a couple steps towards the shower stall and and reaches in to turn on the water. It has separate knobs for hot and cold; he turns on cold first then reaches for hot.
The cold water strikes the side of his head and he cringes, remembering the three separate times they did it to him. Cold water, so cold it hurt, maybe close to freezing, he didn't know but it started to feel that way. He hadn't realized it was possible to feel so cold, on Earth at least. So cold, his brother was dead, so cold, then agony, his brother was dead, more agony, and his brother was dead forever.
He jerks back, away from the spray, swearing at the sudden spike of pain when he stumbles. He leans against the counter, hangs onto the edge trying to slow his breathing. It's just fucking water, he tells himself.
Then Dean returns and immediately notices something wrong with his brother, half his hair wet and his entire body shaking.
"Sammy?"
"I'm fine."
"Like hell you are."
"I, uh- I just need you to turn the hot water on for me," he confesses, unable to look Dean in the eye.
Dean waits for an explanation.
"Did you notice the shower head in that basement?" Sam asks.
That's all the hint Dean needs.
"We could just do a sponge bath," he suggests. "You shouldn't even be on-"
"It's just a fucking shower, Dean!" Sam snaps. "If I tried to run from everything that's ever been used to try to hurt me, I'd be a basket case every fucking Tuesday."
With no further argument, Dean reaches in and turns the knob for hot water. Sam secures the plastic bag around his foot and after testing the temperature, very pointedly steps into the stall without any handholding.
It's not intolerable, but even at a pleasant temperature, the water beating down on his head is bad. He doesn't have a more precise word yet but he can start with that. He shuts his eyes and tells himself that he's okay, he's okay, he's okay and Dean is alive, Dean is alive and he's okay, they're both okay, Sam is okay. The water isn't going to grow cold and take him back to that chair and that world with no Dean.
"Sammy," Dean says, breaking into the mantra. He tries to pat his little brother's shoulder, but Sam only moves away from the touch.
"I'm fine, Dean. You can leave."
"If I take a step out of this room, you're gonna fall and hit your head, I just know it." He passes a bar of soap and a washcloth to Sam.
The younger man notices him biting back a comment, and knows exactly what Dean isn't saying. As much as Sam hates joking about it, it's a sign that his brother is worrying too much if he held his tongue.
"I won't. ...I won't fall, either."
A few of the worried lines around Dean's eyes disappear and he finally steps back, crosses his arms, and looks elsewhere, so Sam considers it a win.
It's possible to be overconfident about bathing oneself, Sam learns when there's a sudden stinging pain in his left hand, the one he cut open, and the bar of soap slips out of his grasp.
"Shit," he mutters. Not the end of the world, though. There's no way he can't do something as simple as reach down and-
Of course he happens to lose his balance. He never had a chance, did he, he thinks as he falls, hitting more than one bruise on the way. However, Sam's been through too much to let out more than a grunt and another swear. The impact of his body on the floor is louder.
He scowls to himself, ashamed and embarrassed at his weakness. And adding insult to injury, the only thing worse than standing under water right now is sitting. He scrambles to his feet, forced to accept Dean as a secure object to cling to.
Rather than face his brother, Sam allows himself to be held, dripping wet and half of him still in the shower while the other half is pressed against Dean's body.
"Guess I'm a senior citizen now," he says, voice slightly muffled against Dean's shoulder.
Carefully, Dean rights him on his two feet, under the spray of water, then backs away to start undressing.
"Really?" Sam asks, giving an impatient sigh.
"Here's the deal: you wanna shower standing up, I need you to let me in there." Dean pauses after peeling off his damp t-shirt, giving Sam a chance for a flat-out no.
"I don't need that much help," Sam tells him out of principle, turning up the hot water for his hedonist brother. Extra heat feels kinda good, actually. He lowers his lids and tilts his head as the spray hits his face. Just water, he says to himself. Water is nice. Water is usually safe.
And yet, every drop on his skull is like a small rock being pelted at his mind. The thought of being touched by someone else right now is suddenly very unappealing, too. But that's exactly what he needs to allow to happen, he thinks as he hears the thud-rattle of shoes on the floor, clinking of a belt, zipper, jeans falling.
"Sammy," Dean murmurs to avoid startling him before he steps into the shower stall, stripped down to nothing more than boxers. They cling to his legs as they absorb water.
Okay, Sam thinks as he watches his brother getting closer. Everything is okay.
"Alright, we can do this a couple ways," Dean announces after retrieving the soap. "You give that to me and focus on standing up, or I give this to you and keep you steady while you take care of yourself."
It's the one that Sam feels more ashamed about, but physically it will hurt less. He returns the washcloth he had no opportunity to use, averting his eyes. This goes against so much—his desire to be strong before his brother, his sense of dignity even when injured, and this new, wrong instinct to shy from someone's hands near him. He won't let that win, so he has to let the strength and dignity be as small as being on his own two feet as water beats down upon him. Small to him, anyway.
"Where should I start?" Dean has the soapy cloth at the ready. Sam must have zoned out a little more than he thought he did.
Taking a deep breath, he reminds himself for the last time, nothing is going to hurt him unless he wants it to. Dean is safe, Dean is real.
So he holds out his left hand, keeps his shaking knees underneath him, and lets his brother scrub at his knuckles, between the digits, the back, under the nails. Then Sam turns his wrist, revealing the line of stitches on his palm. Someone sutured it while he was unconscious, after his failed escape attempt. It smarts upon contact with water, but that's fine. That's good.
The significance is not lost on Dean, who abandons the washcloth in favor of just his thumbs around the gash, cleaning away the dirt that lines Sam's palm.
The stinging is good; this is pain he asked for. Any and every sensation from Dean is welcome. He wanted his brother back, wished he had let the world implode, but it was too late. And yet, here they are, Dean is really here. Sam watches his face as he works, letting himself smile for a moment for no other reason than being together again.
Dean repeats the process of using the washcloth on unbroken skin and only his hands around Sam's wounds. Arms, shoulders, chest. It's good to have grime and sweat and blood washed from his body. Normally he wouldn't be happy about this in any way if he were at all conscious, let alone technically capable of it himself, but as usual, he can make an exception for Dean. Dean can help remind him as soon as possible that the rules of Sam's dark world for the past day or two—water is bad and physical contact hurts—are not the rules of reality.
"Close your eyes, tilt your head toward me," Dean commands before starting on Sam's face. Nothing but a little soap on his fingers to rub away the dark crusted blood.
This is getting ridiculous, Sam thinks, every centimeter of his face getting attention. Even if it is worth doing, and feels nice, there's something almost absurd about anyone caring this much.
Around the time Dean moves on to behind his ears, Sam starts grinning. Despite being unable to see, he senses the question coming and explains:
"This must be how your car feels."
"What?"
"Name one other thing you take this much time cleaning."
"...Just rinse your damn face," Dean replies after a second, words shaking as he stifles his laughter. His hands fall to Sam's shoulders.
Before he loses his nerve, Sam turns his head to let the water beat upon his face. There's still a smile there when he faces his brother again. Not so bad.
"Lemme get your back." Mirroring the relaxed expression, Dean gestures for Sam to rotate. He's less meticulous now; either because of Sam's comment or the fact that the people torturing him focused mainly on the front. "'Kay, get back over here."
After Sam has returned to his original position, Dean gets down on his knees to take another look at the sutures on Sam's thigh before cleaning around them. He's checking for other injuries, too, as he scrubs Sam's long legs and exposed foot. None worth noting aside from horrific bruising on one shin from falling on the steps, and the burn on his right foot, of course.
"Almost done," Dean tells his little brother as he gets up. Leaving his hair alone for now, there are really only the unglamorous parts left to wash.
"I can manage," Sam informs him. "You don't even need to hold me up."
"I'm still gonna be here," his brother replies, not especially trying to conceal his relief as he surrenders the washcloth. He keeps his eyes on the shower floor after that.
Sam grimaces as he begins the task of scrubbing under his arms. His brother picks that, of all moments, to ask the inevitable:
"So were you gonna do it? ...Try to bring me back?"
Sam scoffs.
"Is that even a question?"
There's a wry smile—Sam doesn't see it, he just knows there is one.
"It's supposed to be no second chances now," the elder brother points out.
"Yeah, well, we haven't taken no for an answer in a long time."
"No we haven't," Dean agrees, finally stepping out of the stall to retrieve towels from the closet, having failed to get any beforehand. Sam turns off the water but forces himself to remain in place until his brother returns.
When Dean starts to pat him dry, Sam means to protest that his limbs were working thirty seconds ago, but the words don't come. There's a lump in his throat as Dean wraps the towel around his now-dry shoulders and guides him to a relatively dry corner of the bathroom. There are puddles everywhere from him dripping water across the room in the quest for towels.
Sam's gone much longer than a couple days thinking his brother was dead, but never had he been so hopeless. There had always been at least a possibility that he would see Dean again. Not this time. This time, he knew that he'd try and that he'd fail. This time, he couldn't be sure that he would be with Dean in a shared afterlife.
He didn't really lose his brother, but someday he will for real, and it will be the same. Sam can't stand that. He can't handle the thought that someday he and Dean might be parted but be forced to endure for the rest of eternity alone. Whatever the Empty is that's being held over their heads, it doesn't sound like a place they'll be able to find each other.
He starts limping over to Dean, who's about to pull on his jeans, having gotten out of his soaked boxers.
"Sammy?"
Shivering from something other than cold, Sam wraps his arms around Dean, warm safe alive big brother. He can't pretend he's okay. After having his body broken, his mind bent, and his broken heart ground to dust, only one thing can help Sam. All he wants, all he needs, is his brother—the light to his darkness.
"Okay," Dean whispers as he returns the gesture, "okay." He pats Sam's back and gives him every second he asks for to simply know that Dean is there. "I'm right here. I'm gonna patch you up, we'll have a couple beers... I'm not going anywhere, Sammy."