Work Text:
It dawns on me that the worst is over.
When I open my eyes, I know where I am - Bobby’s panic room. I know why I’m here – another blood withdrawal. I know that I’m in here alone – no hallucinations, no leering demons, no in-the-flesh self-recriminations.
That’s the good news.
The bad news is that now I’m hyper-aware of all the agony I’m in.
I’m freezing on the outside and burning on the inside. Every joint pivots on large grit sandpaper. Every breath pulls acid into my sinuses. My back aches like I was thrown down a staircase. My stomach feels like it’s being driven up my esophagus by fireworks. My hands have electric sparks exploding in them. Inside my boots, fire ants rampage over my feet. My brain is dried to dust, and some week-old road kill has crawled into my mouth and is rotting away.
Somebody please make it stop.
I’m on the floor, near the cot. I must’ve fallen off, but I don’t remember it. I know that it means I wasn’t cuffed to the cot, but I can’t remember right now what that means. Or if it even means anything. The floor feels hot under me, but maybe it’s just me. The pitcher of water is on the table on the other side of the cot but there’s no way I’ll ever make it that far on my own.
All I can hear is my own breath, harsh and painful, as it shreds in and out of me. There’s no sound from the other side of the panic room door, but who knows what time it is. I think it’s nighttime, but I can’t be sure my eyes are clear enough to differentiate.
But if it’s night and nobody is out there, there’ll be nobody to come in here and help me get a drink of water. And if I don’t get a drink of water, I’ll melt and bubble into toxic sludge here on the oven-hot floor.
But Dean has to be out there. Dean has to be somewhere close enough to hear me if I call him. He’ll come in and give me water and maybe he can make the ache in my back go away and stop the fireworks in my throat or if nothing else he can just be here with me.
Dean.
Dean has to be here.
My mind focuses on that one thing --that one person -- so completely, that suddenly I’m at the panic room door when I didn’t even realize I was crawling there. I’m half lying, half sitting, pressed up against the door that’s just as hot as the floor is. And now the water is even farther away from me.
“D – D – D’n.” It’s all I can get out and it’s not loud at all. It’s sure not loud enough to be heard through two inches of steel door. But I keep trying, lifting my hand to pound – tap – against the door. “D’n?”
Then another thought – some fear or memory – stabs into my brain that Dean is dead. It’s in there solidly; I can’t pull it free from all the other noise to figure out if it’s true. I can’t remember how or why that thought is in my head, or how or why Dean would be dead, but the thought is there.
Dean is dead.
I stop to listen out the door, but with the buzz in my head and my breath in my ears and my heartbeat in my throat, I can’t tell what I hear and what I only want to hear and I feel the panic building in my chest, crowding out my breathing, squeezing my heart.
Is Dean dead?
What if he is?
What if he’s not here? What if nobody is here? What if nobody ever comes and I’m stuck here forever in pain and misery and no water? What if nobody ever comes back?
What if Dean is dead?
I lift my hand and slap it harder against the door, for all the good it maybe does me, but all I know is that I’m in burning, freezing agony and it’s all I can do to pull in enough breath for one last plea.
“Dean – please – make it stop.”
That last bit comes out a high pitched whine but I don’t care because if nobody comes in I’m going to die anyway so who cares if I’m whining or what I sound like. I want Dean. I just want Dean. He’ll make it better. He always makes it better.
Is he dead?
And then the door is opening and I’m falling sideways and then I’m not falling sideways and Dean – Dean – is here. He must be on the floor too because I’m eye level with his shirt collar and his arm is around my shoulders and his voice is right at my ear.
“Man, I can’t leave you alone for two minutes, can I? What d’you think you’re doing? What are you doing getting off the cot? How’d you even get this far? I’ve seen over-boiled spaghetti that had more strength than you do right now. C’mon, let’s get you back on the cot.”
He sounds like he’s pissed and he sounds like he’s joking and he sounds like he’s talking too fast on purpose and I know that he’s not dead. He starts to lift me, but any movement is going to be fresh agony and I can’t stand it. So in that same high-pitched, ‘I’m whining and I don’t care who hears it’ voice, I beg him again,
“Please – make it stop.”
“What? Sammy, what? What do you need me to stop?”
And he asks in that tone of voice that says he will stop it; no matter what it is, he’ll stop it.
“Hurts. Hurts.” It’s all I can say. “Make it stop. Please, make it stop.”
“I will, I will, Sammy. C’mon. Let’s get you off the floor, okay? Hey, Cas? C’mon in here, will you? Okay, Sam? Cas and I’ll get you back on the cot. Then we’ll get you some – “
“No, no. Don’t move me. Don’t move me. Don’t. Please.”
Dean’s strong but not strong enough to move me easily and the effort it’ll take will be agony on me. My bones and muscles and skin already feel like they’re liquefying. Any pressure will be like acid eating my flesh away.
There’s no way of explaining that to Dean, there’s no way I’ll get all of those words out in any kind of sense and order and Dean will try to lift me and my arms and legs will twist off in his hands like melting taffy.
Melting taffy with exposed, electrified nerve endings.
But Dean doesn’t move me, I feel his arm more secure around my shoulders and after a few moments he says, "Cas? Bring in my sleeping bag, will you? Lay it out here against the wall.”
I keep my eyes on Dean’s collar so I only see out of the corner of my eye that Cas carries an unrolled sleeping bag into the panic room. He doesn’t take it too far past me, he must lay it out just behind me and all I can think about from that second is getting off this baking hot floor onto anything else. All it takes is Dean saying,
“All right, Sam. We’re just gonna get you…”
And I’m reaching behind myself, turning, crawling onto the sleeping bag, desperate for comfort, for softness, for anything that isn’t this bone-scraping, soul-sucking, unremitting agony.
It’s heaven. The sleeping bag. It’s a thick, soft, clean surface. It’s not hot like the floor; it’s warm like Dean was only just sleeping on it. He must’ve been sleeping just outside the panic room door. That realization overwhelms me as I stretch out full length, and it’s not just my muscles that want to cry out in relief.
“Sam? All right, Sam. It’s okay. Let’s just get you comfy.” Dean has followed me to the head of the sleeping bag. He must be on his knees, he’s down at my level. “Cas, you got it? Okay, here, Sammy, here.”
He lifts my head and there’s a pillow and it’s not the one from the cot because it doesn’t smell like vomit and I’m the most comfortable I ever remember being in my entire life. I feel Dean’s fingers pressing through my hair and even though it doesn’t ease the freezing or burning or fireworks or pain, it eases something and for the first time in who knows how long, I feel like I might survive this.
“So, what d’you think, Sammy? A little water? You must be kind of parched, hunh?”
I want to nod. With everything I have left in me, I try to nod but I think all I manage is another pitiful squeaky whining sound because even with the relief that Dean is here, that he’s always been here, I’m still freezing and burning and gagging and in pain. I expect a smart, snarky response from Dean, but he only leans closer.
“I know. I know how bad you must be feeling. The worst is over now, okay? Everything from now on is just about getting you better. All right? Here. Here’s some water. Small sips, c’mon, you know the drill.”
He lifts my head again and I take the small sips of water and my life is complete. But he no sooner lets me back into the pillow and moves around to set his back against the wall next to me than my stomach revolts and forces even that little bit of water back out again, and I’m off the pillow and half off the sleeping bag, retching and cramping and whimpering and just as miserable as I ever remember feeling as both my stomach and my brain try to follow that water up my throat and out of my nose and onto the floor under my hands.
“Dean – please –“ I manage to whimper while I’m still retching. “Make it stop. Make it stop.”
I have no idea what I think Dean can do; all I can think is that only Dean can do anything.
“I will. I will, Sam. Just hold on. Just hold on.”
His fingers are still in my hair and his other hand is on my back and his voice is close to my ear and when the retching stops, he gently tugs me back onto the pillow. Pillows, it seems, the pillow is higher than it was. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe I just can’t tell.
“All right, Sam. It’s gonna be okay. We’ll take care of this. Okay, Cas….”
He says more to Cas but another bolt of nausea erupts up my throat and all I can concentrate on is not puking my guts up into my sinuses while the muscles in my back feel like they’re ripping in two and my eyeballs are shriveling and whatever died in my mouth turns into the creeping undead and I think it’s planning on creeping back out again.
“All right, Sam. Cas’ll be back in minute. Then we’ll get you squared away. Okay? Okay, Sammy?”
I want to say ‘okay’, because Dean wants me to say it. But I don’t know what ‘squared away’ means or what Cas has to do with it; if it means the pain will be gone or that Dean will be gone or if I’ll just be gone somewhere else.
So I don’t say anything and Dean only massages his fingers through my hair and across my shoulders and when he shifts, the pillow moves and I figure out that he’s put it on his thigh and I’m bundled right up against him.
Then Cas is back or back again and whatever he’s brought squeaks and clangs like thin metal on wheels and Dean shifts and my pillow moves and then he’s taking my hand and talking to me.
“Okay, here we go. Just a pinch. That’s what they always say, right, that it’ll just feel like a pinch when really it feels like they’re driving a spike up your vein. Right? But let me just… first I just have to…”
I feel something cold and wet swipe across the back of my hand and then a pinch, a little pinch or a little prick but thinking about what Dean would say to that remark makes my head hurt worse, so it’s a pinch and I look at whatever is happening to my hand but my eyes are gummy and sticky and all I see is a milky blur.
“All right, there we go. Just c’mon and lie back. Let’s give that a few minutes and see how you feel.”
Give what a few minutes, I wonder. But whatever it is ~ an IV my brain finally deciphers ~ I’ll give it a few minutes. I’ll give it as long as forever, mostly because I don’t have any other choice, do I?
Nothing changes, it doesn’t feel like anything changes but I wait because that’s all I can do and then slowly, incrementally, unbelievably, the agony in my back eases up and the acid in my sinuses stops chewing through my brain and the freezing and the burning finally meld into one general feeling of bearable warmth and just as I’m about to sink into how good it feels I realize when I’ve felt this good after feeling this bad before.
“No!” I sit bolt upright and blindly, awkwardly, unsuccessfully, try to find the IV needle in the back of my hand and rip it out. “No blood! Dean – please – no – don’t – I can’t – I can’t –“
“Hey – hey! Stop it! Stop it!” Dean grabs my shoulders and blocks my hands and pins me lightly against the wall. “It’s not blood. Sammy, I promise. It’s painkillers. Just painkillers. Okay? Painkillers. Painkillers.”
He keeps saying it, just saying that one word ‘painkillers’ again and again, until I understand what he’s saying and what it means and what it doesn’t mean. It’s not blood, it’s not the ‘hair of the hellhound that bit me’, it’s just a regular IV and painkillers.
And it’s working.
“Okay?” Dean asks and I hope he doesn’t need any kind of firm, clear response from me because that’s going to be a long time coming. The pain and sparks and fire ants drain out of me and it leaves me even weaker than before and I don’t nod as much as I think I try and fail a couple of times to keep my head up.
But Dean doesn’t need more, of course he doesn’t. He can tell – from my breathing, from my posture, from less than that – that the painkillers are working and I’m rappelling back from the summit of hell, and his breathing and his posture relax too.
“Good. Okay. Good. Let’s get you situated again. Okay? C’mon. C’mon and lie down, Sammy. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m right here. We’re just gonna sit here and wait it out, okay? Well, I’ll be sitting. You’ll be laying down. Okay? C’mon.”
He helps me untwist from my defensive posture and settle back onto the pillow on his thigh and I sink into sleep and sleeping bag and the feeling of Dean’s hands on my head and on my back, and his whispered reassurances,
“It’s okay. It’s okay, Sammy. Just sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up. Just sleep…”
I’m more than happy to do as I’m told and I let the waves of sleep wash up around me and over me and pull me into a warm, calming, quiet darkness.
I come back awake into quiet deep darkness and I wonder where I am and what happened and where Dean is, and then I feel his hands on my back and on my head and that’s all I care about and I relax.
The lights are off in the room and there’s no light coming in through the Plexiglas in the ceiling. The only light is the red safety light near the door, and as my eyes adjust, everything is black tinged with red.
I suddenly wonder if this is what hell looks like. Maybe the lights aren’t off. Maybe this is hell.
Maybe Dean is in hell and maybe I’m there with him.
The thought drills back into my brain – Dean is dead. I can feel his hands on me but still the thought won’t go away.
He’s dead. Dean is dead.
“Dean?”
I feel his hand pressing across my shoulders as he comes awake.
“Sam? Y’okay?”
The sound of his voice and feel of his hands should calm me, but it doesn’t.
“Where are we?” I ask, a little desperately. I’m still not sure this isn’t hell.
“Hmm? Panic room. Remember?” He sounds half asleep. “Only been a couple of hours since we put the IV in. Remember?”
“D-d-dark. It’s dark.” I say. I’m afraid to ask about hell outright.
“Yeah. Lights.” He yawns. “Thought you’d be easier, no lights.”
“Oh. Yeah. Okay.”
“You want ‘em back on?”
I do, but I don’t want to bother Dean. I don’t want him to have to get up and cross over to the switch. I don’t want him to leave me, even for that long.
“No. S’okay.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Go back to sleep.” He says. His hand keeps soothing across my back. “It’ll be morning in another couple of hours. We’ll see about getting you upstairs.”
I know I should tell him to go up and get some sleep of his own in a real bed and come back for me in the morning. He can’t be comfortable sitting on this hard floor for however long he’s been sitting here. Two hours, with at least another two hours to go. I should tell him to go get some real rest himself. But I don’t want to. I don’t think he’d do it, but I don’t even want to suggest it.
Instead, I huddle closer to him, and close my eyes against the black and red and darkness and disappear back into sleep.
When I wake up again, it’s into warm, calming, quiet brightness; natural light coming through the Plexiglas in the roof. My hands aren’t sparking anymore, and my feet have been liberated from my boots and socks.
Best of all, Dean is still next to me. Or I’m still next to him. I can feel his hand on my shoulder and my head is still on the pillow on his thigh. I’m covered with a blanket, or two blankets maybe since there’s a blanket over my shoulders and tucked completely under my feet and in all my adult life I’ve never known a single blanket long enough to manage that.
The bad news is that the road kill in my mouth has shed its decaying fur all over my tongue and teeth and if I don’t get water soon I may just gag here and die.
I try to say Dean’s name but it comes out sounding more like ‘blwah’ than ‘Dean’, but it’s enough to rouse him.
“Hey, Sammy. Back among the living?”
To answer him, I try to say, ‘wish I wasn’t’ but those words come out more like, ‘zzzzthhhhhhhhhhwwwww’ and I feel as much as hear Dean chuckle.
“Okay, we’ll get you taken care of. Here. Here. Can you sit up? I had Cas get you some grape Pedialyte.”
It takes a few seconds for my brain to register what he said, and another few seconds that I consider snarking at him and then in the last few seconds I figure it’s not worth it.
Sitting up is a whole other ball of wax, though. Melted wax. Because I can’t move. I can barely lift my hand and I end up dragging it over Dean’s leg instead of just setting it there, and it feels like it weighs eight hundred pounds.
“That’s a ‘no’, then, hunh?” Dean figures it out. “All right, we can handle it. Here.”
There’s movement, Dean moves, and I’m lifted up a little, enough that when the bottle of Pedialyte appears in front of me, I can sip it without wearing it. After the first couple of tiny sips, I can tell that it’s going to stay down and I take a few more stronger sips.
Above me, so quiet I think probably I’m not supposed to hear it, above me I hear Dean whisper, “That’s my boy,” and it’s all I can do to not break down crying at his side for the relief and pride I hear in his voice.
Even after all this, after everything I’ve put him through, in our whole lives as well as just this past week, even though all I’ve done all this week is let him save me, Dean can be proud of me for being able to sip some grape Pedialyte without hurling it back all over his boots.
“Okay, let’s not tempt fate.” He says then, and sets the bottle aside. “Better a little that you keep in, instead of a little more I have to mop up.”
I try to pull back but I end up sagging awkwardly against Dean’s arm for a few seconds until he straightens us out and I’m back on my pillow. On the floor this time as he groans himself to his feet and twists the kinks of out his back and yawns himself at least a little more awake.
“Okay, let’s check this out. I think you can take one more IV bag. Aaaand…”
He draws that word out and when I look up at him to see what’s going on, he’s giving me a ‘how stoned are you?’ look.
“Aaaand – I think one more go-round at least of the good stuff. That’ll get us through getting you upstairs and cleaned up.”
Clean. I feel like I could never be clean again. I’m week-old road kill inside and out and Bobby’s gonna have to burn the mattress from the cot and have this room washed down with boiled vinegar to ever get the smell out of it.
But it’s not the external that’s the problem. I could be as pristine as possible on the outside, and it just wouldn’t matter.
“Never be clean.” I mutter to myself, but Dean hears me and his answer is fast and clear.
“Don’t talk like that.” For a few seconds, he looks like he’s going to say something else, something more, but what can he say? He knows what I’m talking about, and he knows there’s no cleaning that out of me, ever. So he just says again, “Don’t talk like that.”
I close my eyes and turn so I’m lying on my back on the sleeping bag and pillow, while Dean gives me a new IV bag and a new dose of painkillers and in a few minutes I’m floating in warm waves of drugged disinterest and relaxation.
Dean sits cross-legged near me. Near enough that when I open my eyes I can see how tired and ragged and dragging he is. And still I know he’s going to start talking about getting me off this floor and out of this room and up those stairs and into a shower and clean clothes and a real bed.
“Can I just stay here forever?” I ask. I think I ask. It’s what I mean to ask, no matter what actually comes out of my mouth. The longer I can rest here, the longer Dean can rest, too.
But whatever I mean, whatever I say, Dean smiles a tired smile.
“You already have been here forever, Sammy.” He scrubs his hand over his face. “It sure feels like it, anyway. We’ll get you upstairs. Cas can wing you up there, or I’ll carry you, but we’ll get you there.”
“I just want to sleep.” I tell him. I think I tell him. It’s what I mean to tell him. “Just let me sleep here.”
He looks me over, in his ‘dissect, measure, decide’ look. He’s deciding for me what my next move is going to be. If I wasn’t so drugged up, I might care.
“Okay. You stay put for a few more hours. We’ll get you upstairs while there’s still time left on your morphine meter. For now you get some more rest.”
“You – you need to rest. Too. Dean.” I slur out over the painkillers.
“You still remember my name. I think I need to up the joy juice.”
“Rest, too, please, Dean. I can’t – I can’t –“
My adamant plea that I will not sleep if Dean doesn’t is cut short - by my falling asleep.
That’s going in Dean’s tally of wins, I just know it.
The chagrin isn’t enough to keep me in the here and now. Sleep is so nice and safe and welcoming, and it’s made even more so by Dean’s warm, soft, sure, “There you go, Sammy. There you go,” as he pulls the blanket up and tucks it under the sleeping bag and the last thing I feel is his hand resting warm and sure over my heart and I belong to sleep again.
Sleep does nothing good for the thick texture and horrific taste in my mouth which is the first thing I’m aware of as I wake up again. The second thing I’m aware of is that Dean isn’t next to me.
Cas is, though. Near me, anyway. He’s sitting on a camp chair on the far side of the cot, reading a gun magazine.
“Dean?” I ask him. And still something inside of me waits to hear that Dean is dead. And still I don’t know why.
“He’s gone to shower and change,” Cas tells me without taking his eyes off the magazine. “And to assure himself that all is in readiness for your return upstairs. Naturally.”
“Naturally…” I echo. Mostly to myself. I take a deep breath and stretch my arms out to my sides and rub my bare toes against the soft blanket over my feet and for the first time in who knows how long, I contemplate standing upright again.
First I have to get myself sitting upright. Which is actually easier than I thought it would be.
Not easy, not by a long shot. But easier, because I no sooner push myself up on my elbow than Cas drops the magazine and stands up, clearly intending to come to my aid and that alone impels me to force myself to sitting, pressing my shoulder into the wall to stay upright because for a few scary seconds the world tilts and I feel like I’m going to hurl my guts all over my blanketed feet.
Cas stops; he obviously sees that I forced myself up to avoid his help. I want to apologize to him even though I don’t know for what exactly, but the Pedialyte sits just off my pillow and I reach for that and drink the rest of it, as much for something to do as to rehydrate myself.
“Dean requested that I remain here and render you whatever assistance is required,” Cas tells me. And adds the totally unnecessary, “He was most explicit.”
“Yeah, I can imagine he was.”
I finish the bottle and start to wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, but it’s the hand that has the IV needle taped into it and I’m thrown what I’m supposed to do about that. If anything. So I put my hand down in my lap and look at my situation.
My physical situation, anyway.
I’m folded up on the sleeping bag like it’s a life raft. And like I thought, two blankets are twisted around me. My clothes are sweaty and damp and clinging and uncomfortable, and if I thought I could move without collapsing, I’d pull my long-sleeved shirt off just to be rid of it.
But since the wall is pretty much the only thing keeping me vertical, I don’t risk moving away from it.
I don’t look at Cas. I know he only wants to help, and maybe not only because Dean told him to, but I don’t – I just don’t want him here. I’d rather be alone. If Dean can’t be here with me, I’d rather be alone in my misery. My weakness.
My shame.
It occurs to me that if Cas wants to, he can probably read my thoughts and I stare at the blankets bunched over my legs and try to only think, ‘blanket, blanket, blanket’ even while I’m thinking that it probably doesn’t make any difference anyway.
Cas stands there, I can see him - I keep track of him - out of the corner of my eye. He looks down then up then to the panic room door. He probably wants Dean back here as much as I do.
“If you wish, Sam, I can bring you upstairs.”
“No,” I all but shout at him. Or maybe I do shout at him, when adjusted for my lack of strength and voice. “No, thanks. I’m – I’ll – I can – “ If the wall would open up and swallow me, I wouldn’t mind. “No.”
“Perhaps I could let Dean know that you’re awake and hasten him back down here.”
At first I love that idea, and then, suddenly, I can’t stand the thought of Cas – of anybody – standing even metaphorically between me and Dean and I push myself to my feet so fast it shocks even me.
“No, don’t. Don’t bother. Don’t – don’t – I’ll just – I can – just don’t – please.”
If I wasn’t so sick and exhausted, if I wasn’t worried that my legs won’t hold me or wondering if my back only feels like I shredded it against the salt-encrusted wall when I scraped against it getting myself to my feet, I might feel bad or feel something at the look of worry and concern on Cas’s face.
“I don’t believe Dean would approve of you attempting any exertion on your own,” he says. “I’m sure he would be very unhappy to know you were even considering it.”
“Dean won’t be mad at me for trying to get upstairs,” I tell him, a little breathlessly I admit.
“No, on the contrary, I’m sure all of his ire will be directed at me and what he will view as the dereliction of my duty on your behalf.”
That’s probably true, but I want to contradict Cas anyway, but all I can manage is to shake my head and even that threatens to spin my brain around in my skull, which isn’t going to do much to get me out of this room under my own power.
Cas lets out a deep, aggravated, breath but doesn’t press his case.
After a few deep breaths of my own, and with maybe nothing more than sheer strength of will, I lift my hands high enough to take a bleary look at the IV and start to consider how to pull it out without ripping my vein open.
And then – “ Cas – what the hell?” – Dean is here. “I told you to take care of him.”
He’s here and he’s pissed at Cas, who only shakes his head, lifts his hand and drops it again in resignation, and breathes out a healthy sigh.
“I’m fine,” I say but who knows if Dean even hears me. He wouldn’t believe me, anyway. Mostly because it’s not true. He’s at my side in a second, his hands on my arms keeping me on my feet.
“I forgot how tall you are,” he jokes up at me. It means he’s proud and he’s worried that I’m standing on my own and he covers both with the joke.
“Take this out,” I ask him. Tell him. Show him my hand with the IV. “Please take this out.”
He takes a few seconds to consider it, then, “Yeah, all right, here we go.”
He bends his head down to his work and I stare at the top of his head. Mostly to not look at Cas who’s got that ‘sucking eggs’ look on his face and I can’t stand to see it.
“All right, Sammy. All done. Let’s see about getting you upstairs. Cas?”
As drained out, dried out, and half dead or more that I am, I know what he’s thinking, what Dean thinks is going to happen, and it’s not going to happen. Whatever I have to do, or not do, it’s not going to happen. Cas is not getting me up those stairs. I am getting up those stairs under my own power.
Only, just as soon as I move one footfall away from that wall, my knees buckle and only Dean’s shoulder under my own keeps me from smacking myself in the face with the floor.
“Cas? Any time now,” Dean says.
Still, I have to try. I want to try. I will try.
“No, please. I can walk. I can. Dean. I can walk.”
“No, you can’t, Sam.” He doesn’t even look at me when he says it, he’s watching Cas walk over to us. It pisses me off.
“Yes. I can.”
Dean turns to stare at me and Cas stops walking. I try to give Dean our patented ‘I need to talk to you alone’ look. I succeed only enough for Dean to give me our patented ‘I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me with that look’ look.
I know I’ve put Dean through enough this past week, this withdrawal, the withdrawal before this one. Hell, my whole life. I know I should just let Cas wing me upstairs or Montana or wherever Dean wants me to be.
But I can’t.
“I don’t want help,” I tell Dean. I don’t want to need help.
“Cas…” Dean says after a few beats of consideration. “We’ve got this. Go on upstairs and – and – just go on up. We’ve got this.”
“All right. Yes,” is Cas’s short-on-syllables-long-on-disappointment answer. He takes the long way out of the panic room – he walks – and when his footsteps finally sound over our heads, Dean turns to me.
He pushes me back until I’m leaning against the wall again, says “Stay there,” then walks over to grab the chair Cas had been sitting in and brings it back to me. He helps me sit down, which is such a relief, I don’t ever want to move again.
“What’s going on? Why don’t you want Cas’s help? And don’t give me any more ‘I can do it on my own’ crap.”
That’s exactly what I’m about to say, and I don’t have another answer. Castiel-Express is the easiest, fastest, most logical way of getting me upstairs, but I just don’t want to. And I don’t know how to say that. So I don’t answer Dean. I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes.
There isn’t another chair for Dean to sit, and the mattress on the cot has to be too nasty for even the worst sewer-slime-sludge monster to get near, so he crouches next to me. Dean crouches next to me and puts his hand on my arm.
“Sam – Sammy – I need you to tell me – is this just Winchester pride? Did Cas do something to you? Did he hurt you?”
“No.” I lift my head and look at Dean. I wonder why he’s even asking such a question. “No. Of course not.”
“Then what? Three seconds and you’re topside. What’s so wrong with that?”
I don’t want to say the words out loud. But – the truth, right?
“I did this to myself. I brought myself here, I should get myself out.”
Dean argues with me. Of course. He stands up, stands over me, and disputes me.
“You didn’t do this to yourself. You didn’t bring yourself here. And just by the sheer act of surviving this, you are getting yourself out. So can we cut the rugged individualism crap and get you upstairs to a nice hot shower and some industrial strength toothpaste?”
Like when he told me about the Pedialyte, it takes a second to register what he said. It feels like the first thing that’s made me want to smile in years.
“Dude, you better not be kidding me about the industrial strength toothpaste,” I tell him. “I’m pretty sure Bigfoot crapped and died in my mouth.”
Dean pulls a face and waves his hand in front of his nose. “Well, that explains a lot,” he says. “So – I can hail us Taxi-Cas? Cas-Cab? Angel-Auto?”
He’s trying so hard to be so casual. For my sake, for his sake. For both our sakes.
I nod. I say, “Thanks.” Dean smiles and over his shoulder calls for Cas. I want to ask him to make sure Cas send us both together but I don’t know how to come out and say it without coming out and saying it. So I reach up to grab his arm and it’s enough. Or maybe it isn’t necessary anyway.
Cas ruffles in and and Dean says, “Drop us next to the closest shower, will you?” And Cas moves closer and touches our foreheads and it’s done. A quick burst of a chill shiver like a draft up my spine and we’re instantly in Bobby’s downstairs bathroom. I’m sitting on the edge of the tub, Dean is next to me and I still have hold of his arm.
Dean gives a look around, like he’s checking that Cas got the destination right. It passes muster and he looks down at me. He pats my hand still holding his arm.
“All right. Hold tight and I’ll get your clean clothes. Don’t wander off.”
He leaves the bathroom and shuts the door. Out in the hallway, I can hear him talking, saying something to somebody. I don’t hear any answer. I only hear Dean.
When I don’t hear him anymore, I stand up. Well, I reach over and grab hold of the edge of the sink and force myself to my feet. Force the sink to hold me getting to my feet and it’s a good thing Bobby’s got a sink with a cabinet because I’m pretty sure I’d rip a pedestal sink right off its pedestal.
But this one takes the pressure of the pull and the weight of holding me upright. Which is more than my legs feel capable of right now.
Especially when I finally look at myself in the mirror.
The face that looks back at me is gruesome, ghastly in every sense and layer of the word. A week of whiskers covers skin so pale it looks like I’ve been bled dry. My eyes are black, my hair is rank, my lips are cracked, and a thin rim of blood edges the underside of my nose.
And for as bad as I look, I feel even worse. I know I smell worse.
How the hell can Dean even stand to be near me?
I don’t have a lot of time to think about that when the door opens and Dean is back in the room with me.
“Okay, here we go.”
He sets my backpack on the sink and puts his hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eye. I want to look down.
“What first?” He asks.
“Open a window?”
Dean looks puzzled and starts going through my backpack.
“It’s South Dakota in February, man. It’s blizzarding outside.” He says easily. He pulls my toothbrush out and my half-used tube of toothpaste.
“Bubblegum toothpaste is industrial strength?” I ask. I lean my weight against the sink so I can lift a hand to pick up my toothbrush.
“You want mint? Bobby said he’s got mint here.” He pulls open a drawer in the cabinet and brings it out.
“Yeah, I think mint is better for getting rid of the taste of dead Bigfoot…”
“Okay. Here.” Dean takes my hand and moves it towards the faucet so he can run a stream of water over the toothbrush, then he squeezes on a generous glop of toothpaste. “You wanna sit? You should sit. Hold on.”
I start brushing the monstrosity of filth off of my teeth just as I start to tell Dean I can stand and the combination results in an inarticulate mess of sound and toothpaste froth. And since I can’t let go of the sink to wipe the side of my mouth clean of the froth, I don’t offer any more complaint when Dean pulls Bobby’s transfer bench out of the tub, sets it behind me, throws a towel over it and guides me to sit on it.
“Okay. Once you brush your teeth, you should take a shower. That’ll make it easier to shave. You always did have iron whiskers, just like Dad.”
He rummages through my backpack again as he’s talking and he pulls out my shaving kit. He’s talking so normally, so casually, I might just be getting over the flu and not – not –
“Sam? You with me?”
“Hmm?”
“Finish brushing your teeth. Then as soon as you’re ready, we’ll get that shower started.”
“Mmm hmm…”
So I brush my teeth. The toothpaste does its job and slowly the taste of Bigfoot is supplanted by the mint, and the layers of hairy mildew are scrubbed away and spit into the sink, along with a not-surprising amount of blood.
“Maybe you shouldn’t brush so hard.” Dean’s paying attention, of course. I don’t think the blood has anything to do with how hard I’m brushing, considering how hard I’m not brushing, but rather how long it’s been since I brushed my teeth before this, but there’ll be no explaining that so I don’t even try.
Just before I’m totally finished, I scrub the toothbrush over my tongue a couple of times to clear the fuzz, but it turns out to be a really bad idea when it makes me gag so hard I think my eyeballs are going to be squeezed out of my skull.
“Okay, whatever that was, whatever you just did, don’t do that again.” Dean says, unnecessarily.
I nod and ‘uh hunh’ and spit the last of the toothpaste out of my mouth into the sink.
“Might have to burn this.” I say and hold the toothbrush up. I can’t seem to let it drop out of my hand. “Can you take it?”
“Sure.” Dean says and he sounds fine and he sounds worried. He tugs the toothbrush out of my hand and sets it on the sink. “All right, clothes next. Here we go.”
He digs in my backpack and pulls out my pajamas - a t-shirt and the blue pajama bottoms I’ve had forever.
“Warm.”
“What?” Dean asks, and for a strange minute I can’t think what I meant. I’m so tired I just want to put my head in my arms on the sink and go back to sleep.
“Warm. Want warm clothes.” It finally occurs to me.
Dean looks at me, he looks at my pajamas, he considers.
“All right. I’ll get you warm clothes. You wanna get started on the shower? Or you can wait for me.”
Wait for my big brother to help me take a shower? Thanks, I think I’m humiliated enough already.
“I’ll get started.”
He lifts an eyebrow like he doesn’t believe me.
“Rrrright. Anyway, I’ll be right back.”
“Knock first.”
He rolls his eyes and bundles my pajamas into my backpack and heads out of the bathroom and shuts the door behind himself.
I’m doing okay, but I’m not any physically stronger and it’s another Herculean feat to get myself standing and stay standing. Getting myself out of my clothes might require an Act of God.
First though – the IVs and the Pedialyte have done their job, so before I get undressed, first I need to relieve myself. More than an act of God, the one thing that keeps me standing to accomplish that is wanting to accomplish it before Dean comes back and decides I need help.
When it is accomplished though, I need to rest my shoulder against the wall for a minute to catch my breath and regain at least a little strength. I hear Dean outside the bathroom again, talking, to Cas or Bobby, I can’t tell.
In another minute there’s a knock on the door and Dean just comes right in.
I want to make some crack about how I should’ve told him to wait for an invitation after he knocked, but that would take more energy than I have right now. Instead I save my breath and wait to hear what he’s going to say about my condition.
He sets a set of my warm clothes on the sink.
“You sure you’re up for this?” He asks me. He’s concerned, trying not to be worried about me, I see it in his face. “We can figure something out.”
“Yeah, sure. I can do it.” I tell him, even though I’m freezing hot and burning cold and disorientingly lightheaded. “Just – would you turn the water on for me? Give it a chance to warm up? You know how long it takes for the hot water to make it this far…”
I try to make it a joke, even though it’s true that Bobby’s got a lazy hot water tank, but Dean doesn’t find it funny, if the glare he’s shooting me means anything. Without taking that glare off of me, he leans down and turns the taps and flips the switch, and the shower turns on.
“Really, Sammy. Whatever it takes, we’ll spare your dignity, if you can’t hack this – “
“I can do it, Dean. I can. I’ll take it easy. I’ll take it slow. I will. I can. I can do it.”
“All right, all right. Don’t wear yourself out trying to convince me. C’mon. Can you get the clothes off by yourself?”
“Yeah.” Really, I’m kind of surprised he’s given in that easily.
“You want me to put the transfer bench back in? In case you need to sit?”
“No, with my luck I’d trip over it and break my neck.”
That makes Dean chuckle.
“Yeah, I can sure see that happening. All right. I will be right outside this door, if you need anything. All right?”
“Yeah. All right. Yeah.”
Dean sighs and I wonder if he’s going to change his mind just that fast, but he taps my arm and leaves the bathroom and shuts the door and I hear the creak of the floorboards that means he is standing right there next to the door.
And I’m safe, for the moment, from forcible showering.
Steam starts rising from the tub, which means the water is hot enough, which means I need to start taking my clothes off. I shrug out of my long-sleeve shirt easy enough and toss it over the transfer bench still in front of the sink. But pulling off the rest of my clothes takes some doing and stings like I’m flaying my skin off of myself.
Once they’re off though, t-shirt and jeans and underwear, all stiff and crumpled and kicked aside, I gather enough strength to step into the tub, under the shower, and oh my God, this hot water is the best thing I have ever felt in my life. I take back every bad thing I ever said about Bobby’s hot water tank. I love his hot water tank. I want to take his hot water tank with me anywhere I go.
I’m less in love with his soap and shampoo but right now I’d wash with Bon-Ami if I had to. I want to get clean. I want to put on clean clothes and lay down in a clean bed and forget the feeling of sweat and filth and disorienting agony. So I wash my hair with Bobby’s high end shampoo and wash the rest of me with soap that smells like Old Spice and then I just stand under the hot water until it starts to cool off.
I shut the water off and hear that floorboard squeak so I know Dean is restless out there.
“I’m fine.” I call as loud as I can as I make what’s left of my strength get me out of the tub so that I can get dry and get dressed in private, with no over-protective, over-hovering, over-driven big brother coming in to make sure I do it right.
“Prove it.” He calls back, and I think to myself, ‘I will.’
Then again, I’ve only gotten as far as pulling on my boxers and jeans before I’m considering asking Dean for help anyway. I’m lightheaded still, from hunger now I’m thinking, but lightheaded is lightheaded whatever the cause and I’ll probably hate collapsing and knocking myself unconscious even more than Dean will.
So, I call him, “Dean?” as I pull on the long sleeved t-shirt and I’m barely done speaking and pulling when the door opens and Dean is in.
“How’re you doing?”
“Floor’s getting a little unsteady.” I tell him, and just to prove my point, I’m abruptly resting my shoulder against the wall, watching the floor pulse under my feet.
“All right, here, c’mon.” He moves close enough to pull my arm over his shoulder and that makes the floor go still again. “You can shave later. Let’s get you out to the kitchen and feed you before you wither away to nothing.”
“Gladly.”
I lean more than I want to on Dean’s strength as he finesses us through the bathroom door. He grabs my long sleeve shirt and socks off the sink as we pass and then we’re in the hallway and making our slow but sure way to the kitchen.
The rest of the house is quiet, no one else seems to be around. Not that I look anywhere but where we’re walking. I don’t ask where Cas and Bobby are because I don’t really want to know.
“All right, grab a seat.” Dean propels me to the table, pulls a chair out, sets me down, hands me my remaining clothes and keeps going to the stove all without breaking stride. “I’ve got mac and cheese, the brand name stuff. It’ll be ready in just a few minutes.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He tosses me a quick look like he wonders why I’m thanking him, but then all his attention is on the steaming pot on the stove in front of him and while he stirs and drains and measures and pours and stirs again, I get started putting my socks on.
Nice, thick, warm, wool socks.
“Want help?” Dean asks.
“No.”
“Need help?”
“No.”
“Hmmm…”
But he leaves it at that and I accomplish my task just before he serves us each a plate of macaroni and cheese. Really good macaroni and cheese. Oh my God macaroni and cheese. It might even be better than the hot water in the shower.
Dean’s watching me eat and his smug look tells me he can read in my face how good his macaroni and cheese is. I ignore him. I try to ignore him until I’ve eaten my last spoonful and he asks,
“Good, hunh?”
And it is so good, I don’t even point out that anything tastes good to a man who’s starving –
It hits me so fast, so hard, so completely –
Starving, Famine, the restaurant -
“Sam?”
- the taunt that Famine leveled at Dean that he’s dead inside.
“Sam? What?”
“Are you okay?” I ask him. I have to ask him.
“Me? I’m fine. Let me get you some more mac n’ cheese.”
“Dean –“
He takes both our plates and turns to the stove. His way of ignoring me.
“Dean? Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He brings the plates back to the table. “I’m not saying I couldn’t use another couple hours of sleep, but I’m good. C’mon, eat up. You look tired enough to sleep another month.”
If I ask Dean outright about what Famine said, he’ll clam up and shut down and I’ll never, ever get another chance. I’m too tired to try subterfuge and the second plate of mac and cheese is just as good as the first one was, so I bide my time and eat my – breakfast? – and enjoy being upright and alive and with Dean.
“You want anything else?” Dean asks when I’ve finished the second serving. “Tea? Warm milk? Because beer with the morphine – probably not a good combination.”
“Tea. I think tea would be good.”
“Tea it is.”
He puts our dishes in the sink, fills the tea kettle and sets it on the stove to boil. Then he turns back to me.
“C’mon, let’s get you upstairs. Drink your tea in comfort.”
“Are you okay?” I ask again.
“I’m fine. You already asked me that. C’mon.”
He makes that impatient gesture with his hand that means he wants me to stand up. He wants me to stand up and drag myself upstairs and drink my tea and go back to sleep and stop asking him questions that he doesn’t want to answer.
But I don’t want to move. And I know how to get answers out of Dean without necessarily asking questions.
“I need to sit, just let me sit and drink the tea. Okay?”
He’s not convinced, not yet. He crosses his arms and gives me his ‘this is my serious face’ face.
“C’mon, Dean. Once I get to the bed, I’m gonna want to just go to sleep. Let me drink the tea down here. All right?”
He growls. He grumbles. He gives in.
“All right. One cup of tea and beddie-bye. Right?”
I nod, fast, like I think he’ll change his mind if I don’t.
“Right.”
He still gives me the stink-eye as he turns back to get a cup and a tea bag and the honey bear bottle of honey Bobby has in his cupboard. I keep my expression blank and innocent and exhausted. The last of which isn’t hard at all.
When Dean is turned away from me, I look beyond him out the window over the sink. It’s not blizzarding outside. It’s snowing and the wind is blowing hard and then not hard and then harder again. The snow and the fresh air both seem so clean and real and untainted and suddenly I need to be out in it.
“Changed your mind about going up – hey.” Dean says as I push to my feet and head for the back door. “There’s no chair anywhere near that door.”
“Air. I want air.”
He walks towards me, clearly intending to put me back into my chair. He puts himself between me and the door.
“There’s air here. Right here in the kitchen. Plenty of it.”
“I need – I want – I can still smell the panic room. I don’t want to smell it anymore.”
“I’ll get you some Febreeze.”
“Dean –“
“Sam – it’s twelve degrees outside. It’s winter in South Dakota. And you’re not exactly at fighting strength. Or any kind of strength.”
“It’s clean.” It’s the only thing that matters to me. “It’s clean.”
Dean sighs. He’s giving in.
“I’m getting you a jacket first. And a blanket. And boots…”
He moves off, still listing everything he’s going to get me. He’s onto earmuffs I think and the fresh air is too inviting and I walk out onto the back porch. The first blast is icy but not overwhelming so I sit down on the top step and enjoy the air and the snow and the freedom.
Freedom which seems like it’s going to be short-lived when Dean bursts out onto the porch, blanket in hand. He’s so pissed his lips are pressed white.
“Really, Sam? You couldn’t wait for me? You don’t even have any shoes on.”
“I’m fine.” I say. And I even manage to say it without giving in to the shivers that want to rattle my teeth.
Dean rolls his eyes and wraps the blanket around my shoulders and pulls an edge up behind my head. Then he glares at me, hands on his hips, waiting for me to change my mind or burst into flame.
“Are you having tea?” I ask, but that’s not what I’m really asking and he knows it.
“Give me a minute.” He grumps and disappears back into the house.
In a minute, Dean's back with two cups of tea. He hands me one and sits down next to me. I take a sip and it’s hot and good and the generous helping of honey that he put in it does wonders for my ragged throat. I take another, bigger, sip.
Dean watches me.
"Helping?" He asks.
"Yeah."
"Good."
We sit in silence and drink our tea and I think still on what Famine told Dean. There's no point hoping that Dean didn't believe it, doesn't believe that he's dead inside, even though it's so obviously not true. If there's one thing any Winchester will believe, it's negative things about himself. So I know Dean believes it.
If I tell him it's not true, he won't believe me. If I point out all the explicit reasons why it's not true, he'll find all the explicit counterpoints why it is true. And if I don't say anything at all, he'll think that I think it's true.
That's not happening. I'm going to tell him exactly what I think.
I just have to find my way there.
“How long have I been out of it?” I ask him.
“This would’ve been your fourth day in the panic room.”
“So – today’s Monday?”
“Uh…Tuesday. There was the seventeen hour drive back here before that. That took up most of a day.”
"Oh." Images run quickly and vividly through my head of what those four days must've entailed for Dean. The stress and fear and aggravation. "I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”
“Me? All I had to do was carry you down Bobby’s basement stairs. After that, I had it easy.”
“You had to stand by and watch me suffer. That wasn’t easy.”
He shakes his head, not like what I said isn't true but more like even if it is true it doesn't matter. Then he drinks more tea. Then he changes the subject.
"As soon as you're done with your tea, you should have another one of these."
He pulls another grape bottle of Pedialyte out of his jacket pocket and sets it next to me. This time, I can’t suppress the sigh of aggravation.
“What?” He asks.
“Pedialyte, Dean? You couldn’t just get Gatorade?”
He looks offended. He’s offended?
Then he explains, “Gatorade’s for people who sweat too much. Pedialyte is for kids who are sick. You're sick. You get Pedialyte.”
I'm actually touched by that, that he put that much thought and concern into that choice. But Dean won't want to know how grateful I am. If I try to tell him, he’ll pull away, so I roll my eyes and shake my head. And for some reason it's right at that moment that it hits me how to tell Dean that Famine was lying about him. The only other time I know of that Famine met someone he couldn’t cow. It hits me so hard, Dean sees it.
"What? What is it? You okay?" He puts his hand on my shoulder and looks close at me. "You should be going in to lie down. It's going to be a while before you're 100%"
"I was just thinking about Famine."
That makes Dean stiffen up, even as he makes himself look like he couldn't care less what I might be talking about.
"What about him?"
"I was just thinking - Famine was in Egypt with Joseph."
Dean waits a few beats to see if I'm going to explain that for him, and his eyebrows go up in a 'are you still hallucinating?' expression.
"Joseph…?" He asks.
"You know, from the Old Testament, Joseph. His brothers threw him into a well and sold him into slavery in Egypt?"
Dean nods and scoffs.
"Yeah. I remember in seventh grade Miss Nagowski tried to get me to be part of her 'Amazing Technicolor Nightmare’. What about him?"
"I just - Famine was there. In Egypt, with Joseph. There was a famine for seven years, only Joseph was prepared for it. He saved food to last them the seven years, for the whole country. And Egypt wasn't even really his country. He could've saved just enough for himself, or for his family, or for Egypt. But he saved enough for everyone in Egypt and for everyone in the surrounding countries who needed it. He was so prepared, he was able to take care of anybody who needed it, everybody he could reach."
“Okay…” Dean says, drawing out the word.
“I mean – it wasn’t just Famine either. If Famine could’ve provoked the world to panic, there would’ve been war, people fighting over what little food there was. There would’ve been widespread sickness, malnutrition and disease. And all of that would’ve ended in death, global death. And he stopped it. One man who didn’t need what Famine was offering, stopped it all cold.”
Now Dean's giving me his, 'You are seriously still hallucinating, aren’t you?' look and the cold is starting to make me shiver and I need to get this done so I can go inside and go to bed.
"I just - can you imagine how pissed Famine must've been to go up against a guy who was so prepared that nothing Famine did could touch him? I mean - we know Famine's a sore loser. I can imagine the things he must've said, the lies Famine must've told him to try and get him to break down and give up. But a guy that prepared, that ready and able to take care of everyone else, he'd have to know that what Famine said was lies."
I take another sip of tea so I don’t look like I’m waiting for an answer from Dean. I am waiting for answer, but I don’t want to look like it.
But Dean’s quiet next to me. We drink our tea and watch the snow swirl around the junk cars. He doesn’t seem to feel the cold.
Finally, he says, “Sammy, only you could come out of four days of demon blood withdrawal with a treatise on Egyptian history.” He's not disputing me or snarking me or asking me what the hell I’m talking about, so - message received and message understood.
He puts his hand under my elbow, “C’mon, let’s go back in,” and steadies me back to my feet. He grabs the Pedialyte and opens the door and the warmth of the kitchen feels so good I want to lie down and sleep there.
But Dean’s hand on my back directs me to the stairs and I go willingly. I don’t remember the stairs being as steep as they seem right now but I manage to get to the top and down the hallway and into bed. Like the hot water and mac & cheese, this bed is the best thing ever. I never want to get out of it again.
And as tired as I feel, that’s a definite possibility.
It’s broad daylight but Dean pulls the curtains closed so the room is dim. He cracks the Pedialyte and puts it on the bedside table, then he lays down in the other bed.
“Cleaning that panic room isn’t going to be easy.” He says after a while. He glances over at me. “Just so you know, we’re staying here until you’re well enough to help.”
“Why don’t we just have Cas clean it? All he’s gotta do is snap his fingers.”
“That would be cheating.” Dean says it like he’s serious. Then, “That’s a great idea.”
“Yeah, I thought it would be.”
The worst is over.
The End