SUMMARY: Tag to 8.19 Taxi Driver - Back at the Bunker, Dean's forced to face reality.
DISCLAIMER: Boys with dirty mouths who aren't mine...
A/N: I suppose it was inevitable I would eventually tackle a Trials!Sam tag. I was bored. Been starved for a little good ol' fashioned h/c, hashtag sorry-not-sorry. Holding out for an angst-filled October...
Anyhoo, enjoy!
He could only hope Cas had his ears on.
"You keep a lookout for my little brother…"
And then he'd asked…he never asked. Okay, more like begged.
"Where are you, man?"
Nothing. Not even crickets.
Angels, man. When you actually asked for their help they were a no show. But when they needed something the bastards felt justified popping in any old time. Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around?
Dean digs the heels of his hands deep into his itchy eyes, rubbing until he sees fireworks exploding. He's friggin' exhausted. Bitter. Angry. At himself because it should have been him, at Sam because the kid just never listens. Kevin's missing. Their only key to solving the damn tablet and getting Sammy back to normal's been abducted. Check. And Cas... the angel Dean claimed as fucking family can't be bothered.
His brother's hurting. Sick. And Cas decides to go AWOL.
Figures.
He also figures now's a pretty damn good time for a nightcap…or three.
Dean passes by Sam's door and isn't surprised to find it ajar. He knocks once, pushes it open the rest of the way when he doesn't get an answer. He frowns and follows the increasingly familiar sound of his little brother's hacking into the kitchen.
Sam's hunched over the table nursing a steaming mug of…something undoubtedly fruity and pouring over at least three separate manuscripts – each in a different language Dean notes with a justified eye roll. Sam glances up, clears his throat, nods at his brother. Pretends he doesn't know why Dean's scowling at him.
"Yeah?" Sam makes a stupid face like Dean's just sprouted a pair of antlers or something.
"You're supposed to be in bed."
"Wasn't aware I had a curfew."
"You're sick." Dean says like Sam's only option is to get your ass in bed or so help me. He puts the carton of milk back in the fridge and throws away the used tea bags Sam left scattered on the counter.
"I'm not sick," Sam protests through an obviously stuffy nose. Then proceeds to prove his statement by letting out a gigantic, body-wracking sneeze. His hair does this commercial worthy sashay when his head jerks and Dean almost snorts out loud. Sam wipes his nose on his sleeve, coughs into it, and avoids looking sheepish while he sips his drink and turns pages.
"Get some sleep, dude."
"Dean, it's just a cold. I'm fine."
"Yeah, and I'm wearing women's underwear."
"Don't be a jackass."
"Don't be a stubborn bitch."
Sam glares.
"I mean it, Sammy. You ain't firin' on all cylinders and you're wearin' yourself out. Time for shut-eye."
"I'm almost done. A few minutes."
Dean's turn to glare.
But he's not an overbearing babysitter – okay who the hell is he kidding? – but he waves a dismissive hand in Sam's direction and stomps off, leaving his brother to drink his leaves and pour over crusty books until his eyes are so glazed and blurry he'll be forced to close them.
Whatever. Grab that drink. Memory foam's calling to him. Good plan.
Sam starts coughing again. At first it's muffled, hidden discreetly behind his fist – a few harsh bouts in quick succession. No big deal.
Dean retreats to the library, rummaging through the lower drawer in the desk where he keeps the good stuff.
Back in the kitchen his little brother hasn't stopped coughing.
And it's no longer an itching a tickle in my throat cough. It's escalated. A deep, wet, chest-rattling, lungs are filled with crap and it's suffocating me cough.
And it doesn't let up. Like when the rails on a subway start out trembling just a little, signaling the approaching train. But then the shaking gets harder and rougher and louder and deafening as the metal monster jolts back and forth on the track…
And then it runs Sam over.
Dean calls his brother's name and Sam can't answer because he's too busy choking on his own spit. Nightcap long forgotten, Dean sprints back into the kitchen with his heart hammering in his chest like an overtaxed piston.
Sam must have stood up from the table at some point because now he's bent over at the waist, wheezing and coughing and veins are popping out all over his neck and forehead. One hand's white knuckling the edge of the table and he's grasping his knee with the other, doing his best to hold himself up while his body convulses with the violent spasms.
Dean's immediately crouching in front of his brother, hands all over Sam's chest and face and arms and fix it fix it fix….
"Sam! Sammy?" Maybe he barks the name a little too urgently, 'cause he's not freaking out. He's not. Because Sam's fine…he was just fine…
Sam's head jerks up in response, eyes filling with that gut-wrenching panic because he can't fucking breathe. He releases his knee and reaches up to grab onto Dean's shoulder instead, his back arching as he heaves, inhaling then choking on the oxygen clogging in his airway, refusing to enter his lungs.
And fuck, Dean doesn't know what to do, doesn't have a plan for this and why didn't Sam tell him everything had gone to Hell and why didn't he know before Sam knew and oh god oh god oh god….
Another agonizing bout of hacking frees a sticky glob from Sam's throat. It flies through the air, sprinkles little dots over Dean's forearm. Red. Red dots. Sam's lips are stained, too. His eyes register the blood on Dean's arm and when he lifts his head again…he looks horrified.
Not by the blood, Dean realizes with a flare of fury, but at the fact that now it's out in the open. Dean can see. Sam thought he'd been hiding it so well. But now his brother can see. And there's no more floating on fluffy clouds of denial. They're a nice idea but in the end they don't stop you from plummeting.
"Shit," Sam chokes out like a guilty confession before surrendering to another crippling fit of coughing. His fingers clench hard then unclench the fabric of Dean's shirt in an unconscious effort to relieve the pain.
A nauseating truth worms its way into the forefront of Dean's chaotic thoughts: Sam's known before tonight. He's not freaking about the blood. He's freaking because Dean's undoubtedly freaking about seeing it. About seeing the truth: that he's not doing so hot, that the trials are taking a bitch of a toll…and Sam's scared. Shit, he's terrified.
"N-never…this bad," Sam croaks defensively, sounding like he's gargling a mouthful of jagged rocks. His face is starting to turn an alarming purplish color and he just can't get any air.
And yeah, so Dean's kind of freaking the fuck out now. He thinks he's earned the right.
"Hey, you gotta calm down," Dean tries. His voice is pitching all over the place and he feels all of that careful self-control slipping because damn it, Sam, breathe….
Please!
But Sam just wheezes some more, "Tr-tryin'…"
"Damn it, Cas," Dean growls for no reason other than frightened desperation. "This is the kind of shit I'm talking about. I swear I'll rip out your feathers."
Then Sam jerks away from Dean, lurching over to the sink because now he's coughing so hard it's turned into gagging. Sam leans his head over and a horrible, painful sound rips out of his throat followed by a thick, slippery stream of red.
"Sammy? Oh Jesus," Dean breathes as he scrambles up behind his brother, one hand hovering above Sam's waist to hold him steady and the other he's using to pull his brother's hair away from his face. Dean peers down at too much blood in the sink and has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming.
Sam's arms start shaking while he holds himself over the sink. He groans, shivers, curls forward and Dean has to turn his head away when Sam pukes again. And yep, so much for that burger he'd managed to feed Sam on the trip back. But this last round seems to do the trick. Sam sputters and inhales, finally, finally not suffocating. His chest heaves at an alarmingly rapid pace as he pulls in hitching, gasping lungfuls of precious air.
"Hey, you're okay. We're okay," Dean mutters helplessly while his brother pants and leans down to cough again, more blood splattering down the drain. "We're gonna get you some help, okay? I'm taking you in to the - "
"No," Sam whines, voice strained thin with pain. "Be…be fine…in a minute..." He hiccups, retching on another cough. His throat has to be killing him by now. "Can't help anyway."
His fingers slide over the counter, fumbling for a discarded dishtowel while Dean reaches for an empty glass above their heads in the cabinet. He doesn't let go of Sam's waist, though.
He fills the glass with tap water and while he's at it, uses his free hand to wash away the mess coating the stainless steel. Sam trembles and sweats as he wipes his mouth and gags into the cloth.
"Drink," Dean instructs, holding the glass to Sam's lips and tipping it up for him because his brother is shaking like he's gonna collapse any second. Sam obeys, too out of it to argue.
"Spit," Dean absently rubs a hand down his brother's back in an automatic gesture of comfort.
Sam spits out a pinkish stream of water and doesn't bother wiping away the strand of spit clinging to his lip because his legs suddenly go all wobbly. Sort of just stop holding him up and he slides down to the kitchen floor. Dean slows his descent and kneels in front of him, waiting for Sam to calm down a bit. Waiting until he's ready.
"Okay?" Dean asks as he reaches up for the cloth, wipes the bloody drool off Sam's chin.
"Don'-" Sam stops to swallow. He still looks nauseated and Dean scans the kitchen for the trashcan. But his brother just closes his eyes and leans his head back against the counter. He's finally taking in deep, steadying breaths. "Don't call anybody."
"Sam," Dean rests a palm on his brother's forehead and Sam quickly turns his face away, brushing him off. "There's something wrong with you."
"We already know what's wrong."
Dean gulps, refusing to let Sam get away with this stupid avoidance strategy in spite of how terrified he is to face the truth.
"How long?"
Sam sniffs and studies the grooves in the tile.
"Sammy? Look at me," Dean lifts Sam's wobbling chin and ends up resting his hand on the back of his brother's neck. "How long?"
Sam's eyes are wet, a deer caught in the headlights, trying to scramble out of the road before getting caught.
"It's just – I thought - " Sam pushes up from the floor, sways – Dean thrusts a hand out to steady him – and wraps his arms tightly around his chest, rubbing like he's chilly. Dean hates the fact that embarrassment's pulled him to his feet. Sam still doesn't want Dean to see and its just too late. "- I had it under control. I did, Dean. And we have so much shit going on, you know? This isn't a big deal. You don't need to worry, all right? It's never like this. I can handle it."
"Right," Dean's suddenly fed up, aggressive. His brother never knew when to quit. Just keeps stubbornly digging his hole regardless of the dirt piling down on his big head. "Hacking your lungs up on the kitchen floor and puking blood. Oh, and did I mention leaving me outta the loop? Yeah, you got a real handle on things, little brother."
Sam's face scrunches up, a hurt look of indignation. He tries to lean casually against the counter but Dean can tell the room is doing a three-sixty. He not-so-casually steps a little closer in case his brother decides to take a nosedive.
"This is just a side effect. That last one just threw me outta whack a little."
"Damn it, Sam," Dean yells, throwing his hands up in the air and he's pleased when Sam visibly flinches. "This isn't a phase. It's gonna get worse. Hell, it's already worse. I need to know when it's worse! You can't just wash your bloody laundry and expect this thing to go away and you can't just-"
"I don't," Sam mutters, turning his undivided attention back to those goddamn tiles.
"What?"
Sam takes a deep breath, looks Dean straight in the eye. It's actually a little startling. His eyes are clear. Determined. And overflowing with an all too familiar sadness.
"I don't expect it to go away, Dean."
"Wha' - I - what do you mean?"
"I mean," Sam leans a little harder against the counter, looking like he's about to fall over. "I don't – I don't know what to expect, okay? I wouldn't take it back. But I don't know what the hell any of this is hinting at. I mean when have we ever been given an easy out?"
"So what," Dean barks. "You're tellin' me you've just given up already? Is that it? Roll over and die like an obedient goddamn dog?"
"Fuck you," Sam spits back and Dean sees his fist clenching at his side.
"Come again?"
"You heard me!"
"Yeah, I heard but are you even listening to yourself?" Dean shouts incredulously. "Sam, you don't get to say shit like I'm handling it when your version of handling it handles you right up to the bright, white light at the end of the goddamn tunnel. I get a vote in how you handle-" Dean air-quotes and realizes maybe he sounds irrational and irate but it's Sammy so he's allowed, "- whether you like it or not! And part of us handling is telling me when you're hurting, you got it?"
"I haven't given up!" Sam's face flushes bright red and he's gritting his teeth like a cornered wolf – ready to pounce. For a moment Dean thinks he might. "But I'm not holding out for unicorns and butterflies either, Dean."
Sam closes his mouth, coughing in the back of his throat. Dean's afraid he's gonna have another fit if he doesn't calm down soon.
"I'd like to know when you getting to live turned into such a crazy option."
Dean feels an uncomfortable pressure building behind his eyes, a lump rising in his throat and his temper deflates. Sam's suddenly fixing him with those big, stupid, watery eyes and Dean can't hold his gaze. He turns back to the sink and washes out the glass Sam used earlier to give his hands something to do.
"I want…." Dean trails off uncertainly. Sam immediately picks up the slack.
"What?" His voice is surprisingly gentle.
"I want – I need you to be okay…this time."
"Yeah," Sam sighs, standing there like an invisible elephant's riding piggy-back. But instead of drooping, he straightens, tries to smile. For Dean…all for Dean.
"I just – I want you to get angry about this. Get mad, Sammy. Beat the fuck outta somthin'. Just quit handling it by yourself. That's all I'm asking. I need to know, okay? When it's bad I – I need to know."
"Okay," is all Sam says. Dean feels the ache in his chest ease a little, hearing the unspoken apology.
"Okay."
Sam stares for a second, then his smile splits into a dimpled grin. He huffs a breathy laugh and shakes his head.
"Dude, you're such a mom sometimes."
Dean thinks he ought to smack his little brother's moronic noggin for good measure. Almost does. Then Sam says, "You know what I want? A drink. You want a drink? I'm gettin' a drink."
He starts to protest because no Sammy, you should be in bed you're gonna keel over on the stairs or something and I'm gonna be left dragging your heavy ass -… Dean shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head, "Fuck, yes."
oooooooooo
An hour and one and a half Blue Label bottles later, Sam's only flying a few sheets higher than Dean. They're stretched out on the couch half-watching, more listening to the pleasant hum of the television.
If he had any sense he would've shoved Sam in the Impala and raced them to the nearest emergency room... or at least shoved him into bed. But a trip would have left Sam frustrated and more exhausted than he already was and they'd had enough of that shit for one night. Alcohol and crappy late night television won out in the end. Dean's forced to pacify his anxiety by spiking Sam's whiskey with NyQuil and lemon for his throat. Anyway, Dean tells himself he can keep a closer eye when Sam's a docile, horizontal burrito wrapped up on the couch.
Dean's been crammed into the corner of the sofa because Sam's gangly giraffe limbs shift positions every few minutes and Dean's given up slapping his brother's legs out of his personal space. It's almost like they can forget the entire ordeal ever happened. Almost like they can pretend it won't happen again.
Almost.
Sam's eyelids are heavy and droopy and he might as well just shut them already. He coughs and takes another sip from his glass, lazily reaches up and presses his knuckles to his lips. Dean acts like he doesn't notice when Sam quickly glances down, checking, the slightest release of tension between his furrowed eyebrows when his skin comes away clean.
"Think I'm gonna hit the sack," Dean announces through a noisy yawn.
"Mmm," Sam mumbles without taking his eyes off the television.
"You should too."
"Nah," Sam rubs his eyes, sighing contentedly. "'M comfy."
"You're sloshed."
Sam chuckles – a sloppy, happy sound. "Prob'ly. Good chance. S'been a shitty day."
"Yeah," Dean agrees quietly. "I know it. And look, I'm sorry about...earlier. I just - "
"Dean, you don' need to - "
"I know but I shouldn't have - "
"Dean?"
"What?"
"Shuddup."
Sam rolls his chin onto his shoulder, peeking at his brother through a curtain of hair that stubbornly refuses to stay out of his face. He offers Dean a knowing, albeit somewhat loopy smile and reaches over to pat Dean's knee.
"S'okay. Ain't feelin' no pain. Tomorrow's day's a new start…somethin' new...or grander…or somethin' like that." He shrugs after realizing he's not really making a whole lot of sense. "Y'know what I mean."
Sam's kind of slurred, a little slow, pleasantly drunk. Agreeable. Any hint of shame or defensiveness about what happened earlier thankfully put on the back burner. Except Dean knows Sam would prefer not to be alone right now. The whole reason he'd suggested they hang out on the couch for a while and Sam had readily agreed just like Dean knew he would. The kid's so easy like this. Emo and mushy, granted - but easy all the same.
"New start," Dean shakes his head, sobering at Sam's depressing choice of words.
"Hey," Sam squeezes Dean's knee where his hand still rests 'cause he's a gigantic girl. But Dean doesn't have the heart to push him off – not after his brother nearly gave him a heart attack and damn it, Sam, it sucks looking out for you sometimes. "We're gonna be okay. We'll handle it. Always do."
Except I was supposed to be doing the handling, little brother... But all Dean says is, "Dude, you really suck at following orders," and drains the last dregs from his glass.
"S'tough, Dean. Is what it is…and 'm…uh," he hiccups through whatever that last word was supposed to be, turning a little pale.
"Sam?"
"S'fine," he smiles, a strange darkness flickering behind his booze-bright eyes. "Everything goes away, right?"
Dean swallows down hard on the swell of dread that's suddenly trying to claw it's way up his throat.
"One way or…or 'nother," Sam slurs. Dean's good mood is a short-lived memory. This isn't fun anymore.
Dean returns the pat on Sam's knee instead of looking into his brother's eyes. He's not sure what he'll find there if he does. Resignation? Hope? Childish trust or guilty, irreparable resentment….
Either way he doesn't want to see.
"Yeah, kiddo," he points the remote at the TV and the power flickers off. When he glances back down, Sam's head is buried between the cushion and Dean's shoulder. He's snoring softly, completely passed out. "This'll go away."
Sam's cheek rubs against Dean's shirt as he rolls onto his side, trying to find a more comfortable position. One leg falls off the couch and if his face stays propped up on Dean's arm like that...well, Dean's shirt is going to be soaked through with drool in t-minus ten seconds.
So he struggles out from underneath his zonked brother, pulls Sam's stray leg onto the couch and grabs him a blanket. Dean resigns himself to the fold-out chair and listening to Sammy saw logs for the rest night.
He settles down, watches the fragile rise and fall of Sam's chest as he breathes in and out… in…out…
Dean closes his eyes, waiting for everything to go away.
END