A/N: Season Seven. Sam's Hell.
Disclaimer: Fourth one today, and no one is giving it to me.
We Can Deal
Dean had dealt with a lot since he'd come back from Hell. He tried (and failed) to stop the Apocalypse from happening, he assisted in stopping the angels from torching half the planet (but he lost Sam in the process). He'd been caught in the middle of an angel civil war (which resulted in the death of his best friend, the destruction of Sam's sanity, and a few hundred new Big Bads who defied Dean's "if it bleeds, you can kill it," mantra).
But even with all of that, Dean's first and hardest job was looking after Sam. At times, though, it was damn near impossible. Mostly because Sam was an adult, and dammit, Sam was going to be a damn good adult who was prouder of than he could say, but every time Dean looked at Sam, he was still a scrawny eight-year-old who didn't know about monsters, and who Dean still needed to protect.
Which was absolutely ridiculous, and they both knew it. Sam was six-foot-five, two-hundred-something pounds of (almost) pure muscle, and capable of being a better hunter than Dean or their father ever was. Sam had witnessed and committed (although Dean thinks less about the last part) more evil than a human being ever should have to. He'd been to Hell. What kind of older brother let's his little brother go to Hell, anyway? And Sam's Hell…the things they did to him in the cage…for almost two hundred years.
But really, if Sam was so keen on being treated like an adult rather than Dean's little brother, Dean could deal with it just fine.
That was exactly what scared Dean about the wall coming down. When Sam was up on his own two feet again, he acted like he had everything under control, but Dean saw, because Dean saw everything (unless he was asleep –and sometimes even then). Dean saw how scared Sam was. All Dean wanted to do was fix it, and all Sam wanted was for Dean to fix it. Of course, Sammy would never admit it in a million years, and he would resist if Dean tried to coddle him (not that Dean Winchester coddled Sam), so what the hell could he do?
He could continue being Dean. If he told Sam to make him his stone number one, then Dean was going to do everything he could to just remain. If Sam was going to build on the basis of "Dean," then "Dean" had better always be there.
For another, he had to do more than just be there. Most of the time, "Dean" was enough. The idea that Dean was real, that Dean was there, was enough. Sometimes, Sam needed Dean's actual presence, but most of the time, "Dean" was enough.
Even though Sam said he had everything under control, and most of the time he did, he slipped once in a while. Dean saw. He saw him freeze or one out, sometimes in the middle of conversations. He saw him clawing at his own hand. He saw him stumble. But Dean didn't say anything. If Sam wanted to handle it on his own, then he would, and Dean thought maybe it was best.
Other times, though, Sam just couldn't. Usually, when he was well past tired (and running on four or five hours when you can grab it, fighting monsters every day, while trying to remain in touch with reality is exhausting), he just couldn't take it, and he broke down and let Dean fix it. At least for a little while.
Sometimes, Sam had bad days and he could hardly focus on even Dean from the time he woke up, and Sam hardly noticed as Dean struggled to fix that too.
Sam knew it wasn't real, but what does it matter whether they were real or not? They were gruesome and almost childish, but they made Sam flinch in public, and look extra hard at Dean to make sure he was okay. That everyone was okay.
The nightmares were the worst. The hallucinations, Sam could deal with. He knew they weren't real. Sam knew how to manage his hallucinations. Nightmares were a different story. While he was having a nightmare, Sam was convinced he was back in the Cage. He didn't have any reason not to believe differently. He felt everything in the nightmares, and maybe he was a little embarrassed to admit it, even to Dean (in several conversations Sam couldn't quite remember) how terrified he was. Dean was left to deal with Sam's night terrors because wasn't able to.
Naturally, Sam felt stupidly guilty, even though it wasn't his fault, but Dean didn't mind dealing with the nightmares. Dean knew how to deal with that. IT wasn't new territory, really. Maybe the dreams were worse, but Sam had nightmares his entire life. He could check off Sam's Nightmares on his vey short list of things Dean knew how to deal with.
The only thing worse than Sam not wanting Dean's help because he was proud or guilty was Sam not wanting Dean's help because he was scared. Whenever Sam was scared since he was six months old, he went to Dean. Now, he was twenty-eight-years-old, and even before the Hell Wall came crumbling down, when Sam was scared his immediate reaction was to go to Dean (usually suppressed because he was an adult or whatever).
Dean wondered how pissed the angels really were with him and if it was enough to get him thrown into the cage so he could rip Lucifer apart. There's not a single person ever lived who hated the devil more than Dean Winchester. Probably not even Sam Winchester. Dean wondered if he hated Lucifer at all.
The nightmares that woke Sam up so scared he could move or make a sound until Dean moved closer, at which point he jumped and started screaming his goddamn head off were the worst, because while it usually took Sam at least a couple of seconds to truly separate reality from Hell when he woke up, the whole ordeal for waking up was ten times worse when he woke up from a nightmare.
And this particular dream wracked Dean from head to toe every time.
The first time Sam had that-sort-of-nightmare, Dean was shocked speechless.
Sam had been having a good day, to Dean's eyes at least. They finished up a job and headed straight back to their room. Just because Sam weas having a good day didn't mean Dean liked to press their luck. It's not that Sam was any more tired physically than he would have been before, only it wasn't uncommon for Sam's good day to turn south in a heartbeat after a long day. Sam knew as well as Dean that was the case.
He was just having a really good day.
It was a really good day, until about 1:30 in the morning, when he pulled the full on helpless little brother and sort of curled up next to Dean putting his head on his brother's shoulder. Dean was saying something but Sam couldn't hear, he was so busy trying to keep Lucifer's voice out. Sam dug his nails into his palm and he sat up.
"Time for bed, Sammy," said Dean, his voice cutting through loud and clear.
"I'm fine," argued Sam.
"I'm sure you are," saidDean as he stood up. They were both sitting on Sam's bed, mostly because they could see the TV that way, but also because it was easiest if Sam was already mostly in bed if his good day went bad. And if that happened, Dean wanted to be close by.
Dean turned off the TV and Sam rolled onto his stomach. Sam only eve slept on his stomach if something was wrong physically. Sam shifted some more, and rolled over on his side, his back to Dean, before Dean could check every inch of Sam for injury or illness. Of course, Sam sleeping on his side wasn't that great of a sign either. Dean rubbed his eyes, but didn't put too much stock into it. Maybe Sam's good day could turn into a good night as well.
Dean was wrong. Naturally. Sam had a very bad night (which usually meant bad day on either –and sometimes both –end). He didn't wake up at first. Somewhere between Stanford and now, Sam had picked up on Dean's absolute dead silent nightmares. If one was watching (which would be super creep, by the way) they wouldn't think much at first. Sam slept uneasily, muttering something under his breath. He squirmed some more, making the bed creak. He moaned a little louder. Dean didn't wake. It wouldn't do either of them any good if they both woke up every time either of them had a nightmare. On his own bed, Dean turned a little closer to Sam. Sam writhed in pain, and he started to yell. Dean woke then. He sat up in bed and looked at the clock. Four am.
Dean swung his legs out of bed, but before he could take a step towards him, Sam quieted. He more than just stopped screaming, he relaxed. Dean assumed one of two things. One: the nightmare and passes. Or two: Dean had made an appearance in the dream.
He prayed to any god that would listen that it was door number one, because if it wasn't, their night would only get worse from there once Dean was slaughtered or disappeared, and tomorrow would be Hell for Sammy, and hell for Dean. Any job they might have taken would be pushed back o given to someone else, because "Sammy can't."
Dean attempted to go back to sleep, when Sam called his name. Sam was still asleep, which mean that whoever was taking calls today liked their lives an occasionally literal Hell on Earth. Dean wondered if there was any way for someone to take him to Lucifer's cage for free. Or not for free. Dean didn't care.
"Dean, no," whimpered Sam. He curled in on himself, and Dean still was always sure whether it was best to wake him, even now. "Dean, Dean don't –please!"
Dean frowned. This was a new one. Since the demolition of the Great Wall of Sam, Dean had heard, or thought he heard, every version of how Lucifer could use Sam's only comfort against him. That Dean would leave or taunt or comfort or be gruesomely killed for Lucifer's pleasure. That was easy enough to deal with when Sam woke up. It was easy enough to immediately convince Sam that Dean was there and wasn't going to leave him. There was something entirely different about Sam's tone now. Something Dean couldn't place because Sam had never said Dean's name like that before. Not even in his sleep.
"No –Dean –don't –please, stop. Stop it, Dean," Sam moaned. He writhed and Dean couldn't move because he realized what Sam was seeing and exactly why Dean couldn't understand the way Sam was calling his name.
Dean wanted to puke.
Even as not-Dean in Hell, the thought made him want to puke. Torturing was one thing, but torturing his own brother is completely another.
It wasn't you, Dean reminded himself, but he didn't find it very convincing. Why was he there in the first place?
Sam was still pleading with Dean to stop, and Dean, real Dean, had no idea how he was supposed to make this okay.
All of the angels in creation were dead to him.
Sam woke up. Dean knew he woke up because he stopped moving and he was trying very, very hard not to make a sound. He had rolled over, and was on his side, watching Dean like he couldn't figure out who he was.
Dean took a deep breath, and Sam's eyes flicked over to his right, and when Dean stood up, Sam jumped and grabbed the knife he'd taken to sleeping with under his pillow. "Stay away from me," he growled. Dean expected it to come out as a growl, actually. His would-be-growl came out in a whine. "Don't…don't you come any closer."
"Sammy," said Dean softly. "It's me. You can put the knife down."
Sam swallowed and his eyes flickered back over to his right. He didn't put the knife down.
"I won't hurt you, Sam," said Dean seriously. "Come on, man, you know that."
"No, I don't," he said. It was dark, so he couldn't know for sure, but Dean thought Sam might be crying. And as angry as he was at the devil for making Sam believe for one second that he couldn't trust him one-hundred percent of the time, he was reminded of the incident at the warehouse.
"Okay, fine," offered Dean. He sat on the edge of the bed. He reached under his own pillow and retrieved his own knife. He put it on the bed next Sam. "I'll stay here, and I won't touch that knife if you put your knife down."
Sam nodded. He slid the knife across the beds. Dean wasn't worried that he'd given bordering-on-psychotic-Sam two knives.
"Good." What the hell should he do next? "Sam," he started, and Dean was glad when Sam jumped at the sound of his voice, because Dean had nowhere to go from there. Sam's eyes now rested on the empty space to his right. "Hey, listen to me," he demanded. Sam looked back at Dean. "You know it's me, right?" he asked with a shudder, because what if he didn't.
Sam nodded. "Dean…"
"Sam, who am I to you?" he pressed. Now that the idea had planted itself in Dean's mind, he couldn't just let the issue rest.
"My brother," answered Sam obediently, but not because that's what he had to do to dispel the idea that he didn't know Dean, because he was terrified of what would happen if he didn't. Dean wished that Sam didn't know him, because Sam wasn't just afraid of Dean's body, or Dean's name. He was afraid of Dean.
"That's right," agreed Dean anyway, plowing right ahead. "I'm your big brother, Dean. I would give and do anything for you. I won't hurt you Sam. I promise."
"You did."
Dean closed his eyes. He had. Lots of times. But never in Hell. And never torture. "When?"
Sam's eyes grew wide, and they flew rapidly across the room, trying to latch onto something real, or something that would give him the answer he was looking for.
What a stupid question?
"What did I do, Sam?" asked Dean, but Sam shook his head.
"It hurt," mumbled Sam. "And it was you. I trust you."
"Was it…did I torture you, Sam?" asked Dean. "Sammy?"
Sam nodded. "You…monster," muttered Sam.
"I'm a monster?" asked Dean, even though he knew it wasn't what Sam said. On reflection, maybe it wasn't the best time for joking.
"No!" gasped Sam. "Not you! Me!"
"No," said Dean firmly. "I thought we were past this, Sammy. You're not a monster, and I didn't torture you. Never."
"You did."
"No, I didn't," Dean told Sam and reminded himself. "I learned a lot of things during my tour in Hell, Sammy, and I don't like to use them on low-life demon scum. Why would I torture you?"
"I'm worse than a demon," offered Sam. Dean didn't know how to respond. Monster was one thing, but worse than a demon. Worse than the things that wanted only death and destruction and their own advancement… Sam had offered it in a way that said he wasn't sure if it was true, but he was sure that's what Dean thought. And Dean's silence was answer enough for Sam, and maybe he was worse than a demon.
"Who told you that?" asked Dean in a dangerously low voice. "Lucifer?" Sam nodded. "Just now?" Sam nodded again. Dean sighed. "There's no way, in Hell or otherwise, I could hurt you like that, do you understand me?"
Sam nodded, but he didn't seem convince.
"Try to get some sleep, Sammy," Dean suggested.
Sam nodded again. He picked the knife up from the end of his bed and handed it to dean cautiously. It was a step, but Sam was still terrified.
When he laid down, he was curled into a ball on his side, still facing Dean, eyes clenched tight. Dean got up and put Sam's knife away and slid his own back under his pillow.
Dean closed his eyes but he didn't fall asleep because Sam called him again. "Sam?" he asked. "You okay?"
Sam groaned in response. It was mostly just Sam though, instead of helpless.
"Do you need something, Sam?"
"No."
"Okay." Dean closed his eyes again.
"Wait, Dean."
"Jesus," grumbled Dean. "What?"
Sam was sitting up, play absently with the scar on his left hand the way he used to play with the hem of Dean's shirts and jackets. Dean sat up too.
"Sam?"
"I'm sorry."
"This can wait until the morning," decided Dean, going back to sleep, even though he heard Sam half-heartedly point out that it was morning, and Dean slept for another good three hours.
