SUMMARY: Tag to 5.14 My Bloody Valentine - Sam's panic room aftermath. Because it hasn't been done to death already or anything.
DISCLAIMER: Not my men, just playing. Usual language and morbid, angst-ridden thought processes.
A/N: *Gasp* What?! Gratuitous Hurt!Sam?! I can just imagine the shocked surprise. Poor Sam. I don't know why I enjoy beating the crap out of him so much...I should really stop. And yet, I can't do that, (and move on to physically abusing his older brother), until I've messed around in the panic room. So without further ado...
I'm going to die.
Alone. I'm going to die alone.
It hurts so much. So fucking bad and no one is coming to fix it. Not this time. Dean could fix it. Dean can fix anything. But he isn't coming back. And that hurts even worse because Dean's always here.
Fix it. God, please. Dean, fix it…
Not this time.
I hate my brother. Just a little…just need a little – then it could stop. Every breath shoves my lungs through a meat grinder. Every spasm in my stomach feels like a lightening bolt shredding through my insides. And I have to breathe. I can't scream if I can't breathe…
Air clogs in my throat and I choke around it, trying to make room for the pain burrowing through my body. In the end, the need to inhale wins out and I'm finally able to force a gurgling breath of air into my abused lungs. It's not enough. Never enough.
I'm dying.
Freak. Abomination. Monster.
I'm laughing between screams. Or I'm crying…I'm not sure. I hate not being in control. I hate what's inside of me. I hate that it's going to kill me.
And fuckfuckfuck…it's starting again.
I slam my head into the stench of the cot and hold onto dear fucking life for a while longer. It vaguely dawns on me that I'm gripping the bars, I have something to hold onto. I couldn't do that before…could I? Bloodied iron imprisoning my wrists, forbidding me from grabbing hold of anything to help ride it out. Was it there before…was I hallucinating? I can't remember.
Can't take much more of this.
After the worst has past, I don't even have the energy to cry. I lie panting as frigid sweat bathes my skin and momentarily wonder if I can shiver away the pain. I feel my stomach crawling into my throat, crippling waves of nausea pulsing through my gut, making me lightheaded.
I don't want to get sick. Not all over myself. Not again. I try to roll over and feel for the bucket I know is beside me somewhere on the floor. It doesn't matter. Not anymore. But I have to find the damn thing. Have to do something. Can't just sit here and let it happen. I'm not helpless yet.
I don't feel myself falling, only register the white-hot agony barbecuing my muscles when I land in an awkward heap on the floor. Fuck the bucket. I roll onto my stomach and my body shudders horribly as I give myself over to the sickness, retching so hard and quick there's no time to recover as the pain throbs and splits my skull in half. But nothing comes. No relief. So I lie writhing in a slimy, lukewarm puddle of blood and spit and sweat and pray for it to be over. Let it be over.
It wasn't this bad before.
I want my brother. I want Dean. God, please…I don't hate him. I didn't mean it.
He's not listening.
Darkness comes and goes with the fits. I wake up crying - cursing everyone and everything and begging for death. If this is it - all that's left - I want out.
I don't remember how I end up at the door. It doesn't matter. I want out. Have to get out. I bang and claw, my flesh scrapping over the bolted metal that's beginning to rust. Blood slides in sluggish rivulets down my forearms, staining the door. I'm pleading for anyone and I don't even care what I sound like. I beg to be let out. I scream myself into oblivion. But no one comes. And I'm alone.
I'm going to die alone.
Eventually, my voice gives out and all I can manage are the pathetic whimpers bubbling up from my throat as I robotically slap my palm against the metal. I can't help it. And if no one's coming, why should I? It's distracting. It's helping…
And then I feel myself being nudged away from the door.
"How the hell did you get over here? Oh, no. No, Sammy don't. Here."
And then hands – warm and familiar and gentle – catching me, pillowing my head and running something cool and rough over my face. Washing away the tears and blood and sweat.
I lick my lips and try to open my eyes. Try to lift my head.
"Sam, don't. Don't do that. Oh God, what did you do to your hands? Sammy, what did you do?" My tears are thumbed away and a solid warmth presses against me.
Dean.
Dean came back for me. He didn't leave. I want to cry but there's no liquid left in me so I roll into him as best I can and whimper like a child while he holds onto me and dabs the crusted blood off my face.
"D'n…" It's all I can say, and even that doesn't come out like much of a word. Dean, please don't leave again.
"All right. All right, Sam. Worst is over. You're gonna be all right. It's over now." His voice is rough as sandpaper as he brushes back my disgusting hair and keeps on cleaning me up.
"Ss…'rts," I whisper. "Please…De-" Because all I know is that Dean can fix anything and he's here now and that means he didn't forget. It means maybe I'll survive this.
"I know it does, Sammy," he soothes, his voice shaking a little while his fingers card through my hair. I don't know how he can stand to be in the same room with me – let alone hugging me. And I almost tell him so, but then I remember what it was like before he was here and I can't bear it. So I find his shirt and cling onto it to make sure he's not going anywhere without me. Not again.
"Hey, c'mon. You're gonna be okay. Here. Here, drink some of this. C'mon. That's it, let's just - just lift up your head a little…"
Smooth plastic presses against my lips and my mouth gapes open like a codfish as blissful coolness slides down my throat and I hadn't realized how thirsty I was. It doesn't even matter that the water hits my stomach like melted lead. I'm so thirsty.
"Slow, man. Slow down." Dean pulls the cup away and it takes all of my willpower not to reach after it. He's hoisting me into a sitting position and my muscles scream and thrash against the sudden movement.
"Nuh…no-" I gasp and feel myself falling forward and there's nothing to hold onto. Nowhere to go except down.
"Whoa, hey, okay. Okay, I gotcha," Dean assures just as my face hits his shoulder and he wraps his arms around my back. All the touching is overwhelming. It hurts like hell but I don't want him to go anywhere. I'm afraid if I tell him to let go he'll give up and won't come back. He'll leave me here for good like he should've done in the first place.
"Man, you know it's your own damn fault you're ass is so heavy," Dean says as he adjusts my weight against him. "Should've stopped growing when I told you to. Wish you'd listen once in a while, Sammy - would make my job easier." There's no bite to his words, only downtrodden weariness and nostalgia. He wraps the damp terrycloth around my right hand, soaking up the excess blood. "But I guess there's something to be said for rabbit food, huh? You're like the poster boy for Popeye and all that friggin' spinach."
It should be comforting, but he's talking too fast and laughing too often under his breath while he works on my hands and I realize just how freaked out he is. How much of a burden this whole ordeal has been for him.
He absently begins rubbing my back and the pain nearly shocks me into hyperventilation. Feels like he's peeling the skin off in slivers and it's becoming unbearable. I have to tell him. Fuck. I have to tell him.
"D'n…" I gasp as his hand moves faster and slices off another strip. I feel so sick and wretched I can't even finish. So I sit there with my face smooshed against his chest, pawing miserably at his shirt, hoping he gets the message before I'm a skinless hunk of flesh rotting on Bobby's panic room floor.
"Sam, we're gonna get you taken care of, all right? It's gonna be good again."
Dean keeps talking – his words worried and rapid, breathing into my hair. But I barely hear him. Can't think past hurts.
"I know. I know it does," And Dean sounds like maybe he's crying. "Fuck, Sammy…I know. I'm sorry. So…so damn sorry."
And I want to say that none of this is his fault. This isn't his responsibility to shoulder. It's my weakness. He has to know that.
But anything I wanted to do or thought about doing becomes irrelevant when the pain slams into my stomach again, knocking the air from my lungs. Bile filets the back of my throat and I'm struggling to get away but Dean's not letting go. He won't let go of me. Then again, I'm probably not struggling all that much.
My insides squirm and shift like earthworms wriggling in soupy mud. Sweat blooms through every pore in my skin and the floor tilts dangerously underneath me.
"D'n-" I pant breathlessly and anchor myself hard against his chest, pressing closer, trying to stabilize my unsteady world. "Mmm…g'nna…siii'k…h-hur'ss." I desperately want off this fucking ride and he doesn't understand because I'm not making any sense.
I'm miserable and too hot and shaky and I have to keep forcing myself to swallow it down because my brother won't let go. My ears suddenly fill with millions of furious bees and the spinning room is slowly plunging into darkness when I lose control and feel the warm water involuntarily gushing out of my mouth. It soaks all down Dean's shirt while I retch and cough. I feel him jerk against me in surprise.
"Whoa, okay, hang on. Hang on," he urges gently and I try, because I'm in too much pain to be embarrassed – following Dean's orders is the least I can do for him. My throat spasms convulsively as I swallow down on another gag and wait to see what he wants me to do next.
There's a horrible scraping noise, a feeling like teeth clamping down on a fork, before he's gently guiding my shoulders and easing me over the damn bucket. I swallow hard, over and over, refusing to give into this again.
"Sorry, Sammy. Should've known. Just let it come. Don't fight so hard, huh?" He gives my shoulder a squeeze, letting me know I'm safe. He's got me. I lower my head and immediately start to heave in earnest, throwing up leftover water and sour acid, shaking and sweating through the agony while Dean holds my hair out of the way.
"Jesus, Sam," he whispers, sounding terrified. "Take it easy...take a breath." I'm trying but instead of inhaling I start to hiccup. Dean rubs my knotted stomach muscles and talks in low, reassuring tones while I spit and cough and gasp – try to get my body under control.
Just when I think I'm finished my stomach bucks, cramping, twisting inside out and I'm back to convulsing over the bucket, violent dry heaves ripping through me because there's nothing left to give.
When it all first started, my world was reduced to nothing but red as my body purged itself of the poisonous blood. It was terrifying. But at least then I had something to get rid of. This hurts so much worse.
For a moment, everything goes black and I almost disappear. Dean's hand soothes up and down my back and when I can breathe again it starts to feel good and I nearly fade into sleep. Then the pain skewers my nerve endings and it's all I can do not to scream while I shiver and gag on more bile.
"Dying," I sob out – trying to remember how to breathe. "'M dying…"
"You're not dying," Dean says in that tone that usually means he knows something I don't. "Sammy? You're okay. Just let it pass."
My stomach heaves one last time before I'm panting for air, coughing out the rest.
"Okay," he whispers desperately. "Okay, Sammy. You're done. You're okay. Just try and calm it down, huh?"
"Dee...nnn-" Make it stop.
"Hey, I'm right here. I've got you. It's almost over. We'll have you good as new in no time. I just need you to take a breath for me, okay? Sammy? I need you to breathe…I need you to try and calm down." He brushes my hair back again and the hand on my forehead gently guides me down against his shoulder. It takes a few minutes but I start to breathe easier and my eyes suddenly feel far too heavy.
"Tha'nss, D'n," I slur as unconsciousness tugs at me.
His chest vibrates beneath my cheek and I hear a broken breath of laughter, "Sammy, only you could be sick as a dog and still manage to mind your p's and q's." He settles his arm more comfortably across my back. The warmth seeps into my skin, weighing me down, numbing me.
"I know I…I left you. And you got every right to be pissed at me when you're back to firing on all cylinders. I just – Sammy, I couldn't…" Dean's grip tightens as he tries to clear his throat. It seems to have clogged all of a sudden. "But I'm here now, okay? And I'm not going anywhere…neither are you, little brother. I'm gonna make damn sure of that."
I can't see his face but I can hear the promise in his voice as clearly as if he were looking me dead in the eye. And I want to believe him. But everything's broken and everywhere hurts and I don't know if there's anything left to fix. But I know he'll try. With everything in him, he'll try. He doesn't know how not to.
Freezing. All of the sudden I can't get warm and it's like the cold is a living thing slithering through my veins, turning my blood to icy slush and every time my body shivers it's like white-hot knives branding my flesh.
"Sammy?" Dean bows his head, trying to get a look at my face while he scoots us up along the back of the wall. I start trembling – bad - it doesn't let up and I'm terrified that maybe I'm seizing again.
I curl hard into Dean's chest, burying my head in his shirt as my body instinctively seeks the warmth. He smells like whiskey and gun oil and sweat. I press my nose harder against his collarbone and feel myself sinking into his embrace – Dean holds on a little tighter, protecting me from the icy outside and burning inside, from whatever I need him to. Just like he always does – won't stop even when I don't deserve it.
"C-cold," I manage between chattering teeth.
"Shit…you're burning," Dean mutters above me as he palms my forehead.
"Nuh…c-can't be," I grit out. "S'f-…'eezing, D'n."
"Okay. Okay, hang on, little brother."
My cheek meets the icy floor as he lowers my head, cupping my neck and telling me he'll be right back. I start to call out after him but the words catch in my throat like exposed flesh on barbed wire. Hot, desperate tears well behind my eyes and something in the back of my head whispers that it was all a dream. Dean was never really here.
Why the hell would he want to be, Monster?
My chest feels like maybe it might explode as a painful sob erupts from my gut, shredding what's left of my vocal chords. I huddle against the wall where he left me, wrapping my arms around my chest, desperate for the comforting warmth again.
And I wait.
Because he said he'd be right back.
He said so.
Promised…
Dean, where'd you go?
"Sammy, I'm here. I'm right here."
I drop the blankets in a heap and kneel beside him. He's on the floor, writhing in a miserable ball, right where I left him - his face mashed against the cold cement and body jerking minutely with leftover spasms as he whimpers my name…or a slurry version of it.
I was gone for less than two minutes – gathering an armful of supplies to make him more comfortable – but it was obviously too long. I can't leave him down in this hole another second.
I can't.
I holler for Bobby and somehow we manage to haul him upstairs. Sam's only awake for a matter of seconds, begging us to stop - to leave him where he is - before he passes out with a shaky exhale. Bobby and I both secure an arm, taking as much of his weight as possible. His clothes reek, his skin is clammy with stale, oily sweat and I realize I'm not going to be able to stick him in bed without cleaning him up first.
We reach the bedroom and deposit Sam gently on top of the covers. I scrub a hand over my jaw, unsure of what to do next. I'd only planned as far as getting him out of the panic room.
"I'll run a bath," Bobby offers without me even having to ask.
Decision made, I nod my head and get to work stripping off Sam's soiled clothes. His t-shirt has been permanently discolored with dried blood – I won't think about that. The jeans are a little more difficult but I wrestle those into submission, too. Sam's left in his boxers and I quickly cover him up with a warm quilt when his body begins shaking from the exposure.
"Should be warm enough," Bobby informs me when he exits the bathroom. "I'll grab some clean towels."
Once again, I don't have the energy to do more than nod. I sink down on the mattress, place a protective hand over Sammy's chest and wait.
A million thoughts hurdle through my mind, tumbling and crashing headlong into each other. A million things I could've done differently so my little brother wouldn't have ended up in this situation. So much I could've done, precautions I could've taken, but didn't. Because I thought I could handle it all. Trusted that Sam was safe.
Stupid.
"Dean," I hadn't even realized Bobby was back. The elder hunter is staring down at me, holding the promised towels under his arm – a mixture of compassion and sadness lining his roughened features. His understanding upsets me at that moment more than Sam's prone, broken body. I clear my throat and raise my brother to a sitting position, kneeling in front of him to balance his dead weight.
"Help me with him," I say, gesturing vaguely towards the bathroom.
"Easy son," Bobby places a firm hand on my shoulder. "Let's see if we can't rouse him a little first. Gonna be something of an ordeal if we can't."
"Yeah," I breathe. "Yeah. Okay." I turn my attention to my brother, his gray, slack features scaring the living hell out of me. He's so still he might as well already be dead. I swallow down the sudden urge to hurl and brush over his cheek with my free hand.
"Sammy? C'mon, little brother. Up and at 'em." A shallow breath hitches in Sam's throat, but his eyes remain stubbornly shut. I can feel myself starting to panic - cracking. "Sammy, please. Please wake up. You can't fucking do this to me right now… I need you awake, man!"
"Dean, easy, boy." Bobby gently but firmly shoves me out of the way and takes my place kneeling in front of Sam. I realize all too late that there's wet trailing down my cheeks and hurry to stifle the sob climbing up my throat. I drop to my knees on the floor and wait for Sam to do something. Anything.
"Sam?" Bobby's holding Sam's face in his hands, shaking lightly. "Come on back, now. Time to open your eyes, son."
"Mmmnnhh…" Sam makes a sound in the back of his throat and his eyes slide open. His pupils are blown and I watch as the glazed hazel wanders blankly around the room. "Deee…?"
"Yeah, yeah, buddy," I nearly choke. "Right here."
"Sss'y…'na…room, D'n."
Bobby's brows furrow in confusion. I ignore the questioning look he shoots me and rub Sam's shoulder, making sure to catch the kid's eyes. "No. No, Sam. You're out now. No more panic room. Me and Bobby are gonna clean you up and get you to bed. Think you can stand?"
Sam scrunches up his face, swallowing a few times before comprehension dawns on his features. He shamefully ducks his head and shakes it, no. No, he doesn't want me cleaning him up. No, he doesn't want to suffer through the embarrassment. And no, he probably can't walk.
"Sammy," I whisper, only to him. "It'll be real quick, okay? Besides, it's not like we haven't done this before. And it'll make you feel better. Make you feel hu-"
I bite my tongue as the cliché nearly slips out, catching it, but not soon enough. Because Sam drops his head away from me, curling his arms around his stomach, making himself as small as possible.
I shut up because I know I'll only make it worse. It's not what I meant. He has to know that. But he's so fragile right now, anything I say could break him for good. And I still don't know what to do.
"Sam," Bobby comes to the rescue. "Just gimme your arm. Me and Dean will do all the work."
Sam doesn't say a word, but he does as he's told, hooking his arms around both our shoulders as we gently hoist him up. Tears spring to his eyes and he gags in pain, sagging limply between us. Every sound he makes tears a fresh hole in my heart. My little brother's suffering and there's so much I could've done. I'm so disgusted with myself that if Sam didn't need me right now…
Don't finish that…
Eventually, we're able to set him down in the corner of the bathroom on a bed of rugs and towels. Bobby doesn't even have to take a cue. Just makes sure Sam's settled comfortably before backing out, giving me a meaningful look to let me know he's there if I need him but wanting to give Sammy a small measure of privacy.
I squeeze a generous amount of soap into the tub and swirl it around, testing the temperature. When I turn, Sam's staring up at me, his face looking like it'll crumple any second. He's holding his mangled, bloodied hands out to me.
I take hold of his wrists and kneel beside him. "You wanna wash 'em first?"
A single tear escapes and slides down Sam's cheek. He squeezes his eyes closed, chin trembling, and slowly nods his head.
Sam's breathing heavily, shoulders hitching with every painful gasp as I help him up and over to the sink. He isn't shaking so bad now, but his fingers are unsteady as they reach for the faucet. I turn it on for him but he insists on washing his hands himself.
"Got it," he rasps as he clings onto the edges of the sink.
He slowly begins the process of lathering his skin and washing away the crusted blood. I'm having a difficult time watching. There's a frighteningly determined expression darkening his features beneath the pained exhaustion. He hasn't once looked up at the mirror – as if he's afraid of what he'll find in it.
There's a dresser of clean clothes just in the next room. I place a hand on his back, absently rubbing once or twice while I talk. "I'm gonna grab a change of clothes. You okay for a second?"
"'M good," he mutters without glancing up from his task. Though it does nothing to reassure me, Sam seems steady enough on his own at the moment and the clothes are literally fifteen steps away. He'll need them eventually.
"Be right back."
I spend five seconds rummaging for a new shirt before Bobby approaches, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.
"How is he?"
"Awake."
"Need help?"
"No. I got it."
"Dean, if he-"
"I said I got it."
"All right," Bobby sighs. "You got it." There's something unreadable in his eyes as he glances down at the bundle of clothes, something like disappointment. "Just holler."
"I will," I respond a little too quickly and open my mouth to apologize but the words die on my tongue. The next moment, we're both scrambling at the sound of shattering glass and Sam's enraged cry echoing from the bathroom.
"Sam? Sammy!" I shout, panicking because I left him alone – again. Bobby's right on my heels, his hand on my shoulder, equal parts urging and anchoring me.
I spin inside the door and feel my crazed heartbeat thundering in my ears. Sam's slumped against the wall, naked legs lying haphazardly among all that remains of the bathroom mirror. Broken shards and the cracked frame litter the floor. There's blood everywhere. All over the tile, the sink, the toilet…all over Sam.
He's shaking, staring up at me with wet, terrified eyes. His hands are leaking with fresh blood.
"'M sorry," he whispers as the tears spill over, staining his distraught face. "Sorry…sorry…'m sorry…"
He says it over and over. Won't calm down. Sobbing out the sorry's and shying away from my touch as I kneel to get a look at his hands - as if he thinks I mean to kick him out in the yard or something.
"Sammy? Hey, look at me," I grab his face, forcing him to make eye contact. "It's okay. You're okay."
Sam chokes on a sob, eyes darting fearfully around the bathroom. "I-I thought…thought he was…in there. He was…Dean, he was here."
"Hey, it's not real. He's not real. Okay?"
Thought he was past this shit.
"I-...De?"
"Yeah, Sammy. Right here with you. Nobody else."
"'M sorry, D'n…sorry," Sam grabs onto my shirt, pleading up at me with that horrible expression on his face. That poisonous mixture of shame and terror.
"Shh, hey, it's okay." I cup a hand around the back of neck and rub soothingly. "You got nothing to be sorry for. You hurt anywhere else besides your hands?"
Sam glances down, shakes his head uncertainly and inhales a shuddering breath before taking one last tentative glance around the bathroom. He startles when his eyes land on Bobby waiting patiently in the doorway. Suddenly, he's on the verge of tears again.
"'M s-sorry, Bobby," he cries as his eyes register the bloodstained bathroom. "I'll clean it. D-didn't mean to-"
"No harm done, son," Bobby quickly reassures. "Let's just get those hands bandaged up, huh?"
"'Kay," Sam breathes, eyes slipping closed again.
Bobby retrieves the med kit from underneath the sink and after clearing the broken glass out of the way we get to work on his damaged hands. The cuts aren't nearly as bad as they look. None are dangerously deep or even require stitches.
Nevertheless, Sam's face contorts and he moans softly, head pressed against the wall as he grinds his teeth. I shoot him up with a powerful dose of painkillers and another full of antibiotics before Bobby's even finished wrapping up his hands.
He's fading fast. I decide the bath will have to wait after all. Instead, I grab a warm washcloth and gently scrub away the worst of the grime sticking to his body. It only takes a few minutes but by the time I'm finished, Sam's slurred and weepy and clinging to my shirt, crying unintelligibly for no particular reason except that he's exhausted and hurting.
We half carry, half drag him back to bed and tuck him underneath a mound of covers. Bobby pats his shoulder, squeezes mine, and instructs us both to get some sleep before cracking the door on his way out.
Sam fusses beneath the blankets, trying to find a position that doesn't leave him rigid with pain, before finally rolling towards me. He woozily blinks up, pinched features relaxing a little when I reach over to brush away an annoying strand of his stupidly long hair and allow my hand to linger on the feverish forehead.
"'M sorry, Dean."
And there's nothing to say. I don't know how to make it better for him. I'm too tired. My eyes are gritty and swollen and I try to rub away the ache. One of Sam's bandaged hands peeks face up from beneath the covers. I reach over and take it, holding his firmly in mine.
"I know you are, Sammy."
End.
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