Author's Note: It might have taken 5 years but here is the sequel to my story, Obsession (I would strongly recommend you read that one first). Thanks a bunch to Faye Darmouth and especially to SendintheClowns for all of your help and pushing me to get this story posted.
Devotion
It had been five days, fourteen hours, and twenty minutes since they first realized Sammy was missing.
Another fifteen minutes passed before they started calling every contact they could think of. From the high school, to the track coach, to every single track team members they knew, which was the shocking number of two. And Dean came up with those.
When the sun set, they had started to panic. Well, John had started to panic, which only showed through his awkward pacing and repetitive glances at the clock. Dean panicked at five days, fourteen hours, and twenty minutes.
That first night they searched everything within a five miles radius, from the school, to the library, to other people's backyards. They didn't stop until they were both falling over their own feet and the sun was raising high into the next day.
By the end of the second day, Dean had punched the mirror in the bathroom. He punched it until the mirror and his skin cracked into a million pieces. He still sported the bandages to prove that.
It seemed odd that he could put a timeline on something that seemed so long ago. He had zits that lasted longer than that. Well, maybe not him, but Sammy definitely had.
And now the object of his pimple-free affection was sitting in the car next to him, or more specifically, on him.
The car wasn't three miles away from the hospital before Sammy collapsed onto Dean's lap, his now clean hair smelled like crappy generic brand shampoo. His bony, malnourished shoulder dug relentlessly into Dean's thigh. The clunky cast on his right leg beat against the door over every pot hole and bump the car sped over, making loud, annoying tempo as their father drove them back home.
And Dean couldn't have been happier.
-:-
Sam had been sentenced to three days bed rest. Dean thought the doctors were being far too lenient. The kid suffered from a broken leg, malnutrition and dehydration. Considering this with the small fact that the last time Sam left the apartment he disappeared for three days, Dean decided he was keeping him bed ridden for a year...at least.
Sam forced Dean out of their room several minutes before, complaining that he couldn't stand being stared at anymore. To be honest, Dean didn't really blame him; he hadn't left his side since they had found him.
He spent the past two days at the hospital right next to him, never losing eye contact, even when the head nurse adamantly told him that visiting hours were over and they could come back the next morning.
Fuck visiting hours. Fuck them straight to hell right next to the half a dozen vampires who took Sam in the first place.
He never looked up at the head nurse. Couldn't even tell someone if she was hot or not. She was making him leave Sammy, so she could take a stroll down to hell with the visiting hours she seemed to love so much. Oh, and don't forget to say hi to the vamps.
John finally got the doctor on their side, who pardoned them from the visiting hours while Sam stayed there. At least that's what Dean assumed what happened, he never bothered to leave Sam's bedside to find out.
All the while, Sam was unconscious in what Dean hoped was a pain-free sleep, away from vampires and evil nurses.
Now, Sam was finally back home, or at least as much as a home they could have, and he seemed to have snapped out of his weary half-asleep state.
If only he would let Dean in the room to enjoy some of it.
It wasn't like Dean had spent the past six days just waiting, wishing, praying to hear Sam's voice again. And not his frail, breathy voice. His vocal, strong, pure Sammy voice.
And what was one of the first things out of the little twerp's mouth? "Stop staring at me. You're weirding me out."
Well, screw that. Dean had just as much right to be in that room as anyone else.
And just in case Bitchy McBitcherson had something to say about that, he made a peanut butter sandwich for much-too-thin brother. That should shut him up.
Sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in the other, Dean pushed against the door with his shoulder and eased into the room, only to see Sam already halfway across the room, leaning against his crutches.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dean exclaimed as he put the sandwich and milk down on his own bed.
Sam's stunned face quickly dissolved into one of anger. "I'm going outside, if you don't mind," his voice filled with sarcasm.
"Like hell you are! Get your ass back into bed," Dean ordered, sounding more like his father than he would care to admit.
Sighing at the irony of it all, Dean supposed he should have been more careful in what he wished for. Or at least more specific. He didn't want the strong, stubborn voice. He wanted the strong, praise-filled voice.
The voice that said, "Thanks for the sandwich Dean," or, "You're the best big brother ever." Or, "You can stare at me all day long, and I still wouldn't kick you out of our room." Okay, so, not the last one. That sounded a bit gay.
"Get out of my way. I'm going outside," Sam said through his teeth.
Dean strongly reconsidered which was worse: stubborn Sam or gay Sam. One thing was for sure, both were a pain in the ass.
Softening his tone, Dean repeated, "Sam, get back in the bed. The doctor ordered bed rest for three days. And right now you still have another two and a half more to go."
Sam seemed to deflate against his crutches. "Since when did we listen to doctors? I'm tired of sleeping, Dean. I want to move."
Dean felt his resolve break a little. But he finally had his brother back, and he wasn't going to let go of him so easily this time. "You can still move in your bed. I'll bring over the laptop or something. We could even play a game."
"I'm just so tired of..." Sam trailed off. He looked behind him at the bed and back at Dean again. "Can't we just go outside, please?"
Pausing for a moment, Dean looked at Sam. At the way his clothes were practically draping over his thin body. The way his hands were trembling from his body weight on the crutches. The way the bandages around his wrist were already tearing off, revealing the raw, rope-burned skin beneath. Most of all, he looked at his pale, sunken face, surrounding his large hazel eyes that shimmered with a bit of hope.
God, he was twenty-one and he still had trouble saying no to those damn puppy dog eyes.
But the doctor said three days of bed rest. And, goddammit, Dean wasn't ready for Sam to be out of his sight.
"Sam..." Dean said in the best Dad-voice he could muster.
Sam rolled his eyes.
Dean mentally kicked himself. Sam rarely responded to the Dad-voice when their father used it. Dean was an idiot for thinking it would work in his favor.
Sam leaned forward on his crutches and set his jaw. "Dean, I've spent the past week trapped in a goddamn bed. I'm going to go outside now." There was little emotion in his voice; he talked as if he was simply a fact.
The only fact Dean knew for certain was that when his brother got like this, there was no convincing him otherwise.
Dean sighed and held the bedroom door open. "Let's go."
-:-
A week had passed since they found Sammy. A week of unsubstantial meals, sleep, and conversations.
It was as if Sammy had a cold and couldn't snap out of it. Everything he had done was half-heartedly. And in the end, Dean knew that the only reason Sam did anything at all was to please him.
The only thing Sam wanted to do was lay on the makeshift hammock they set up for him outside. He would lie out there for hours, never moving, never making a sound. He would just look up at the sky, his face lax of any expression.
It troubled Dean. Sam was never calm, quiet, or still. He was the raging ball of energy who questioned anything and everything.
Dean spent years of his life listening to the most prosperous questions that only Sam could come up with. From, "Deeean, why is the sky blue?" to, "Deeean, if salt and holy water works on ghosts and demons, why don't we just bottle up seawater? And what about pepper? Why is it just salt?"
By the time Dean was twelve he dreaded any sentence beginning the word Deeean.
This silent, emotionless Sammy was everything he asked for when he was younger, but now that he finally got it he wanted the old Sammy back. He needed the old Sammy back. Not this defective, piece of crap remake.
He glanced sideways at replacement Sammy, who was sitting on the couch next to him. It had started drizzling earlier that evening, leaving Sam housebound for the rest of the night. Of course, that was after Dean had to go outside and drag him in from the rain.
"Do you want to watch a movie?" Dean asked, as he casually flipped through the channels, but never really noticing what was on. He was only thinking about one thing, and it wasn't on the television in front of him.
Sam just shrugged.
If it had been before...the disappearance, a shrug would have told Dean that he was still mad about being dragged back inside. That was how they communicated, not so much with their words than with their gestures.
Now, Dean had no clue what he meant. Replacement Sammy always shrugged. The only time he didn't shrug was if the question required some type of response.
Dean opened his mouth to say something else but was cut off by a loud crash and a string of expletives coming from their father's bedroom. "Dad! You need help?" he called from his spot on the couch.
"No! Just make sure Sam eats something!"
Standing up from the couch, Dean shouted back, "Got it." He tossed the remote next to Sam's thigh, leaving it on the Home Shopping Channel.
It was strange. Since they found Sammy, his father had never been more attuned to their needs, more importantly, with Sammy'sneeds. Yet, at the same time, he seemed as distant as ever. He was never in the same room with them for longer than five minutes, always having somewhere to go or some contact to check up on. But at the same time, while he was out, he would call and make sure everything was okay, make sure they ate and slept at normal hours.
Dean supposed it was his father's way of coping: to feel needed and wanted, but never being in the way.
"You want spaghetti or left over pizza?" Dean asked over his shoulder on the way to the kitchen.
Another shrug.
"Pizza it is," he muttered as he opened the refrigerator door. He really needed to snap Sam out of this funk, before it drove them both insane.
Just as Dean set the pan on the stove, John trampled out of the room, carrying his large hunting duffle and tossing it in the corner.
"Caleb just called, he's dealing with a nasty black dog a couple states over. He wanted some help. It'll only take three...four days tops."
Dean turned from his dad to Sam, who was still staring blankly at the television. Maybe a hunt would be good for the kid. Reintroduce a sense of normalcy into his life.
Well, normal for them at least.
"Okay, c'mon Sam, let's go get our stuff," Dean encouraged as he started to walk towards their bedroom.
John immediately blocked Dean's path. "It'd be better if you two stay here for this one. It's not that threatening and Sam's still sporting that cast."
Dean furrowed his eyebrows at that. Ever since Sammy was old enough to hunt, they always went on the trip together, broken bones or not. And Dean wasn't going to give up his plan to break Sammy out of his shell that easily. "But Dad, we should-"
John instantly cut him off. "Dean," the tone in his voice left no room for discussion.
"Yes, sir," Dean replied half-heartedly.
Pressing his lips together, John sighed and motioned Dean to come closer.
Dean immediately obeyed, curious as to what was so important that Sammy couldn't hear.
John placed a hand on his son's shoulder and looked him straight in the eye, a technique he always used to make sure Dean was listening. "While I'm gone, you need to find out what's bothering Sammy. Snap him out of this little daze he's in. Got it?"
"I'll try." Dean saw his father slightly smile at his response.
"I know you can do it. You've never let me down before."
Dean wasn't sure how to reply to that. He was sure he let his father down a handful of times (one time with a shtriga came to mind). John was probably too worried to remember and Dean wasn't about to remind him. He also wasn't sure if his father realized that this wasn't Sammy, this was replacement Sammy. And who the hell knew if replacement Sammy reacted well to his encouragement?
Knowing his father wouldn't respond well to either comment, Dean relied on his typical reply of, "Yes, sir."
"Okay," John nodded as he took his hand off of Dean's shoulder and turned towards Sammy. "Sam, I'm off."
Sam remained motionless on the couch. "Bye," he muttered, never looking to make sure his father heard him.
John merely sighed and walked out the door, casting one last supportive look to Dean.
With the click of the door the smell of burnt pizza filled Dean's nostrils. Running to the stove, Dean yelled, "Dammit, Sam, why didn't you tell me?" the annoyance clear in his voice. His brother may have taken a vow of silence but that didn't give him a reason to not warn Dean that the pizza was smoldering.
Dean threw the crisp pizzas on two plates, burning his hands in the process. "Son of a bitch!" he exclaimed, dramatically blowing on his hand afterward.
Rolling his eyes at Sam's relentless silence, he picked up the plates and headed towards the couch. "Well, they're a bit burnt, but still edible."
He sat down on the sofa next to Sam, noticing the T.V. was still on the Home Shopping Channel. "You know you could have changed the channel," Dean commented as he handed Sam his plate.
He wasn't surprised when he got a shrug as a response.
He watched out of the corner of his eye as Sam inspected the piece of pizza before taking a small bite. He seemed uptight about something, but Dean wasn't sure what. "You okay, man?" he finally asked when Sam refused to relax against the sofa.
Eyes wide, Sam snapped his head towards Dean, like a deer caught in the headlights. "Y-yeah. Thanks for..." he stammered as he gestured to the pizza in his hand.
Dean looked at him critically, wondering why Sam was acting so nervous all of the sudden. "No problem," he relented, knowing Sam would tell him when he was ready. At least old Sam would, he'd have to see with replacement Sammy. "Just tell me if you need anything," he said as he resumed his channel surfing.
Several minutes went by in awkward silence, before Sam suddenly grabbed his crutches and stood up.
"You going to bed?" Dean asked as he clicked through three more channels.
Sam merely nodded and began hobbling past the television. Halfway to the bedroom he randomly stopped and exclaimed, "Wait! Go back."
Thrown off by the first words Sam spoken unprovoked in almost a week, Dean paused and asked. "What?"
Frantically gesturing at the television, Sam yelled, "Go back! Go back a channel!"
Dean quickly scrolled back, too confused by the request to deny it.
Displayed on the screen was a teenager with short black hair and blue eyes, advertising some type of beer, even though she barely looked of legal drinking age. Dean took one look at her and one look at Sammy, his bewilderment only growing.
What was it about this girl, though admittedly hot, made Sam open up, when all of Dean's attempts were met with distracted glances and one shoulder shrugs?
Sam studied the screen for a second before slightly frowning. "Never mind," he muttered as he continued his trek towards their room.
Dean continued to stare at the screen, even though the beer commercial had finished playing. He glanced down at Sam's half eaten pizza and wondered what the fuck those vampires did to his little brother's brain.
-:-
That night Sam had his first nightmare since returning. Well, the first nightmare Dean knew about at least. Dean suspected there were more. The bags under Sam's eyes and his early morning crabbiness told him that much.
But this was the first nightmare that startled Dean out of his deep sleep.
The first nightmare that had Sam screaming and thrashing in his bed, still locked in the vampires' grasp.
And Dean was stuck on the sidelines, screaming for Sam to wake up.
Dean assumed it was vampires. He couldn't imagine it being anything else. He dreaded the fact that it could be something else. Something he didn't even know about. After all, who the hell knew what happened to Sam those three days that were missing?
Sam refused to talk about it. Dean refused to push him. His brother seemed like he was teetering on the edge of his sanity as it was, and the last thing Dean wanted to do was give Sam that final push.
When Sam let out another earth-shattering scream that died into a soft sob of "St...stop," Dean decided enough was enough. He jumped on the bed, his legs straddling Sam's midsection, and shook Sam by the shoulders.
"Sammy, snap out of it!" Dean half yelled half begged. Or as close to begging Dean would ever admit.
Sam's chest heaved with silent sobs.
Becoming frantic...hell, he'd reached frantic five minutes ago. Becoming desperate, he placed his hands on either side of Sammy's face and screamed, "Wake up!" with all his might.
Sam's eyes snapped open, locked on something beyond Dean. Beyond something Dean could even fathom.
And in that moment, Dean sat two inches away from Sam's face and Sam saw something that wasn't there. Something that was never there. Something that was quite possibly in hell screaming in agony next to his buddies.
Throughout the past week, that thought used to bring a bit of reprieve to Dean's guilty mind. But it no longer did, because for the first time Dean realized hell was too good of a punishment for those bastards.
Sam blinked once and gasped like he had just emerged from underwater.
Dean slightly smiled, glad to see Sam awake and aware. Completely oblivious to the fact that he was still straddling the seventeen-year-old, Dean placed his hand on the top of Sam's head and let out a sigh of relief.
Sam blinked again, his eyes clearing a bit, and Dean could swear that Sam was looking at him, seeing him for the first time since the horrible nightmare begun.
That is until Sam brought his arms to the side of him and shoved Dean straight off the bed.
"Get off!" Sam yelled like a madman while Dean fell to his side between the bed and the wall.
"Jesus Christ," Dean muttered, still thrown off by what had happened. Sam saw him. He was sure he did. He looked straight at him. What the fuck was wrong with his little brother?
Dean slowly sat up, rubbing his head where it had hit the window sill. "What the hell, Sam?" He looked across the bed to find Sam balled up against the headboard.
"Dean?" the huddled mass in the corner of the bed whispered.
"Yeah. Who the hell did you think it was? The sandman?" Dean rose to his feet and sat at the end of the bed. They were definitely going to have a midnight chat about this fiasco.
Sam cautiously stretched out his legs until the cast was hitting Dean's thigh. "Sorry," he muttered as he turned his face away from Dean.
Dean sighed and ran a hand over his face. Leave it to Sam to shove him off a bed then use such a pathetic voice that Dean felt bad. "Don't worry about it," he replied as he lightly patted Sam's cast. "You want to talk about it?"
Sam seemed to sink further into his blankets. "Not really."
Dean chuckled a bit at that. Of course he didn't. It was the Winchester way. Better yet, it was the Replacement Sammy way. Don't talk about anything...ever. "Yeah well, you're gonna have to."
Sam's head never moved. Never even made an attempt to look at Dean. "I'm tired, Dean," Sam murmured, using his patented fake sleep voice.
Dean knew after a nightmare like that Sam wouldn't fall asleep for an hour...at least. But to be honest, he was a bit tired himself, and his head was killing him. "Yeah, whatever," Dean sighed as he moved to his own bed.
They laid in silence, one undoubtedly thinking about vampires, while the other thought about what the hell was up with his brother.
Seconds drifted into minutes and the minutes seemed to clump into hours, but neither could really tell how much time had passed.
"I'm sorry," drifted through the air like a ghost.
"What?" Dean asked as he turned to his side. He was finally drifting off, and he wasn't sure if he imagined the whole thing.
"I-I said...nothing,'" Sam stammered as if he expected Dean to already be asleep.
Dean scooted up and leaned on his arm. Sam wasn't getting away that easily. "No. You said, 'I'm sorry.' What are you sorry for?" He finally got Sam talking, and he'd be damn if he stopped now.
Sam was quiet for a while, and Dean started to wonder if Sam was going to answer his question at all.
"The hunt," Sam muttered, clearly ashamed. "I'm sorry." He rolled to his side, his back facing Dean.
"What hunt?" Dean turned toward Sam, looking intently at the boy's back. He had hoped once Sam started talking, everything would start to make sense, but it was like the more that came out of Sam's mouth the more confused Dean got. "The hunt with Dad and Caleb?" Never pausing for an answer, he continued, "I don't care about that."
Sam turned his head towards the ceiling, his words soft and uneasy. "You have every right to be mad."
Dean's brow furrowed at that. "Mad about the hunt? I don't care about the hunt. You're still healing." He began to wonder how Sam could ever forget that their health always came before anything else.
Sam seemed to deflate at his words. And Dean wondered if he said the wrong thing.
"Never mind. Forget I said anything," Sam mumbled into his pillow.
Yup, he definitely said the wrong thing.
-:-
It had been a long day. One of those minute goes by every second type of days.
Their dad was still gone and there wasn't a hunt to be found. Not that Dean could go hunting with a crippled Sam. But the least he could do was find their next case for when their dad got back.
Sam was in the backyard, completely oblivious to the stifling heat wave that hit the small city early that morning. He just lay there, never moving, as he contemplated God knows what for hours on end.
Unable to take the monotony, Dean decided to wax the impala, a chore he had put off for the past couple weeks. He was barely done with the hood when he found the heat too unbearable to do anything but sit back with a cold beer in the shade.
Feeling the soft breeze drift across his skin, Dean thought maybe, just maybe, after spending some time with himself he could figure out why Sam found it so damn amusing.
He lay back against the soft grass as the tree's large branches protected him against the harsh rays. He dug deep into his mind, attempting to find whatever it was that Sammy discovered day after day.
It wasn't long before he fell asleep.
-:-
Dean woke up with a start, immediately realizing it was much later in the day than it was a minute before.
Cursing himself for drifting off to sleep, he trudged towards the house, wondering if Sammy had moved at all since the last time he checked. Feeling his dry tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, he hoped the kid at least got a drink of water. He highly doubted it though. Sam no longer had the common sense to do anything anymore. It seemed like he had to remind the kid to even go to the bathroom nowadays.
Planning to get a glass of water for himself and his brother, Dean opened the front door. He instantly snapped out of his reverie by the sound of something snapping shut and random scurrying around the kitchen.
He turned his head to find Sam scrambling away from the kitchen table as fast as he could. Luckily, the boy's crutches slowed him down quite a bit. Normally, Dean would hear the bedroom door click by now.
"Sammy, what are you up to?" Dean asked just as Sam was exiting the room.
Sammy never looked up, but he flinched at the sound of Dean's voice. "N-Nothin'," he stammered as he walked out the back door.
"'Nothin' my ass," Dean grumbled as he moved towards the kitchen table.
At least replacement Sammy was just as bad a liar as regular Sammy.
Dean could only assume one thing his brother was doing on the computer that caused for such a hasty getaway. Something that any healthy warm-blooded seventeen-year-old did on the internet.
Search for porn.
Which, of course, gave Dean an endless amount of ammunition for jibbing and teasing in the near and distant future. Sam should have known by now not to even bother with that until everyone was asleep or gone.
Did he not teach the kid anything?
Dean flipped the archaic laptop open and waited for it to boot back up. Within several minutes of endless waiting and futile clicking, Dean was back on the internet and easily searching through the history...ironically, something Sam taught him how to do.
His brother was going to regret that one.
Searching through the pages Dean found the last thing he expected. Well, maybe not the last thing, but it definitely wasn't nearly as raunchy as he hoped.
It was an enrollment list...to state colleges...dating back over the past five years.
As if that wasn't random enough, each one had one thing in common: education, more specifically, middle childhood education.
Dean scrolled down a bit more to find dozens of personalized sites Sam had been cross referencing them to. Websites such as livejournal, myspace, and xanga. Whatever the hell those were.
One thing was for sure, Sam wasn't searching for half-naked women. He was searching for fully clothed college students. Correction: fully clothed students, majoring in middle childhood education in the past five years.
It was official. Replacement Sammy was twice as weird as regular Sammy.
-:-
Two hours had passed since Sam ran (or limped) out of the house, ineffectually trying to hide his odd obsession with education majors from Dean. He was undoubtedly reclining in the hammock, pretending like nothing had happened.
Of course, Dean had already made sure of that. The last thing Dean wanted was for Sam to pull a vanishing act again.
The loud shrill of the timer rang through the house, alerting Dean to pull the readymade lasagna out of the oven.
Feeling more and more like a housewife, Dean pulled off his oven mitts and threw them on the counter. He held the back door open with one hand as he retrieved coke cans from the fridge. "Sam, get your ass in here! Dinner's ready." He paused for a moment to hear the traditional response.
"Not hungry," Sam's soft voice came through the screen door. Sometimes Dean wondered how his brother's voice could travel so far.
"Don't care," Dean called back. "You're eating something. Now come in here so I don't have to shove it in your mouth while you're sleeping." When he heard the unmistakable of Sam's cast hitting concrete, he silently congratulated himself on his victory and started setting the table.
Still balancing two pop cans in one hand, Dean reached over to pick up the pile of lasagna. He immediately recoiled as the pan burned his flesh, a harsh curse caught under his breath. He dropped the pop cans to the floor and rushed towards the sink to run cold water on his already red skin.
In retrospect, Dean should have kept the gloves still on for when he picked up the four hundred degree pan. But then again, Dean was never meant to be the world's perfect housewife.
"Son of a bitch," he grunted as he dried his burnt hand on a towel. He turned back around, instantly taken aback by the sight of Sam already sitting in the kitchen chair across from him.
Another typical replacement Sammy trait. Never make a noise and hopefully he wouldn't be noticed.
Sighing at the way Sam stared down at the bare table like a statue; Dean grabbed two paper plates and filled them up with lasagna. "You know, you can serve yourself," he commented as he plopped the plate in front of Sam's face.
Sam just stared at the lasagna, not even blinking when it appeared in front of him.
If anything Sam had become worse since their father had left. Now even a shrug seemed like too much of an effort for the kid. He just stared off into space, wasting each day away, only to be woken up by vicious nightmares during the night.
And Dean just continued through each day as though nothing had happened. He hoped that returning Sam to some sense of normalcy would break his shell a bit. But it seemed to do the exact opposite. Sam just drifted further away, barely even noticing his surroundings anymore.
Dean clung on to the hope that he would snap out of it eventually. It had always worked in the past. And, to be honest, he didn't know what else to do.
Dean placed his own lasagna on the table, his eyes never leaving Sam's downcast face. He reached further down to pick up the two stray pop cans on the floor. Finding one under his chair and the other be the fridge, he placed one in front of Sam, still never getting any acknowledgment from the boy.
"Wait a minute before opening that. I dropped it," Dean warned. The last thing he wanted was to have a silent, sticky Sam.
Sam just placed one hand around coke can and tapped the top three times. He stared intensely at the can for a second, as if daring it to explode, and then opened it with its usual pop.
Dean watched in amazement as Sam took a sip out of his can. Shrugging, Dean grabbed his own pop can, tapped it three times, and opened it, only to have it overflow all over his arm and on his plate.
"Dammit," Dean cursed as he bent over to try and slurp his coke out of the can. He was then rewarded with the most beautiful sound in the world.
Sam's chuckle.
Looking up, Dean couldn't help but smile at Sam's bent over form, his bony shoulders trembling with laughter. It made the whole fiasco worth it in that one moment.
As he wiped his hand off on his jeans, Dean's eyes never left Sam's face, scared that his smile could go away any second. "Well, aren't you the special one," Dean jested.
The change in Sam was instantaneous.
He went from chuckling and smiling and alive to a statue frozen in time.
"Sam?" Dean immediately leaned forward, desperate for his moment back. It went by too quickly; he wasn't ready for Sammy to disappear again. His Sammy, the one that was so fucking exuberant and vibrant it was hard to keep up with him. "Sammy, talk to me."
Part of him knew he wasn't going to get a response, but it hurt just as much when Sam didn't even blink at his voice. Leaning closer, he noticed the way all color was drained out of Sam's face. His hazel eyes were stark against his pallor, obviously staring at something Dean couldn't see.
Dean hastily made his way to his brother just as Sam's hands began trembling against the table. He immediately picked up Sam's hands and cradled them like they were a broken bird. "Sammy? Sam, what's wrong?" he asked as he fell to his knees.
Sam continued to stare at the plate in front of him. Harsh breaths shook his frame, his lungs obviously starving for more air.
Dean felt more helpless in that one moment than he had in his entire life. Even more so than those three endless days where he had no idea where the hell Sam was. Because now Sam was here, in front of him, obviously in need of his help and Dean had no idea what to do.
Sam's breaths became increasingly louder, his pale face now slick with sweat.
Dean reached up and grabbed Sam's chin. "Sam, look at me," he commanded, his voice full with an air of authority that he sure as hell didn't feel. Sam stared straight at him, beyond him, his eyes clouded with fear.
His sticky and burnt right hand still holding Sam's chin, Dean gently took Sam's left hand into his own. "Sam. You hear me, Sam? Just breathe."
Dean continued his mantra until Sam blinked into awareness. His breathing slowed down as his shoulder's visibly relaxed. "Dean?" he whispered his eyes wide with dread and something else Dean couldn't quite place.
Dean slightly smirked, more out of habit than anything else. "Yeah, buddy, it's me."
Sam immediately recollected himself, his walls shooting up stronger than ever. "I'm fine," he said, even though the slight quiver in his voice said the exact opposite.
Dean would have been proud of Sam's emotional mask if he didn't find it so damn disturbing. Sam was the one that was supposed to wear his emotions on his sleeve. It was what kept Dean and his father in line. Otherwise, they would be a family of robots, never talking about anything that really mattered.
"No, you are not fine. You just had a panic attack," Dean replied bluntly as he stood up and leaned against the table. "Want to tell me what that was about?"
Sam just stared down at his rapidly chilling lasagna. "No," he breathed.
If Dean wasn't a foot away he wouldn't have heard the response. "Well, you're gonna have to."
Sam wrapped his arms around himself, even though it was the middle of summer. "Dean," he pleaded, lowering his head down further.
Dean almost cringed at the way Sam sounded so goddamn miserable. He stood there, silently debating whether or not to let Sam off the hook. He didn't want to send him into another panic attack if he wasn't ready to talk about. But, at the same time, if he didn't talk about it, it would likely happen again.
One thing was for sure, they were fucked either way.
Dean was about to sit back down when Sam's soft voice drifted across the room. "It...It was just some...something you said," he whispered, absolutely motionless.
"What did I say?" Dean probed. He was lost by Sam's sudden attack, what had happened beforehand completely slipped his mind. He tilted his head trying to look Sammy in the eye, but soon discovered it was impossible to see past the shaggy hair that had fallen over the boy's face.
"It...It was just...you called me 'special'," Sam paused for a moment. And if Dean didn't think it was possible, he seemed to shrink even further into himself. "It was the same as..." He paused again.
This time Dean wasn't sure if he was going to continue. He leaned forward, making sure he didn't miss anything that he said.
"Never mind," Sam hastily whispered as he shook his head.
"Sam," Dean encouraged as he reached his hand out to touch the boy's head.
He wasn't sure how Sam could see it. He could swear the boy couldn't see anything past his long locks in front of his face. But a moment before Dean's hand touch, Sam immediately flinched back, a soft plead of, "Don't," dying on his lips.
Dean was so taken aback by Sam's withdrawal, he stood dumbfounded as Sam grabbed his crutches and stood up.
"I'm tired," Sam stated as he hobbled out of the room.
Staring at the empty doorway, Dean wondered how much longer it would be like this: one step forward and two steps back.
-:-
Dean had been staring at the ceiling for a straight hour and ten minutes. He knew this for a fact because he eyes kept drifting back to the clock beside him to see how much time had passed.
How much time he had wasted staring at the ceiling when he could have been figuring out how to help his brother.
Scratch that, one hour and eleven minutes.
Everything Dean did seemed to hinder Sammy instead of help him. He no longer knew what his brother wanted or needed. He was used to them being on the same wavelength. Sometimes it was scary how they could read each other so perfectly without even talking. It was what made them such great hunters.
Now, Sam was one huge mystery to him. All Dean could hope for was some type of clue. Something to tell him he was doing the right thing. Or at least that he was heading in the right direction.
Dean glanced over at the bed next to him. In the darkness, all he could make out was the tiny bump in the bed, where his brother had undoubtedly curled up into a ball in his sleep.
But Dean highly doubted it was a sound sleep, Sammy's soft whimpers told him that much. Sleep for Sammy had been such a rare commodity lately, Dean would let him have it, nightmare infested and all.
One hour and fifteen minutes.
The familiar grumble of the pickup's engine announced John's arrival. And Sammy was nowhere near better or even improving since his father had left.
For the first time in his life, Dean had failed his father's orders.
Too bad the order was about the only thing that ever really mattered.
-:-
Two days drifted by without incident, good or bad. Everyone seemed to be going through the motions. His father was barely home, either at the library or bar, and Sam kept his personal residence on the hammock outside.
Dean doubted the two were in the same room for longer than five seconds since John had returned. He knew they hadn't said more than five words to each other.
Granted, Sammy hadn't said five words to anyone.
Like clockwork, on the third day all hell broke loose.
Dean woke up to find the bed next to him empty, as usual. It was the fifth day in a row where Sammy went to sleep after him and woke up before him. Dean just hoped that maybe the kid got some shut eye when he was daydreaming outside.
Yawning, he walked out of his room in just his boxers. Living with two guys his whole life it became easy to be indiscreet. On his way to the bathroom, he passed the kitchen, where he saw his father having a conversation with Sammy, or at least attempting to. Picking up a few soft words here and there, he realized John was trying to get Sam to start up his training.
Good luck. Sam seemed to be perfectly content wasting his days away.
Dean knew he should have stayed back to help his father. But nothing sounded better to him right then than a long shower and an even longer piss. He'd back up his old man when he was clean and decent.
In retrospect, he really shouldn't have been surprised when he heard screaming through the bathroom door and over the loud hiss of the shower. For the past three years, every time those two tried to have a conversation, it would end up in a screaming match and the occasional slammed door.
Maybe it was because Sam was acting so different, that Dean subconsciously expected John to act differently too. Either way, when he heard the loud hollers of garbled words, Dean immediately turned off the water, threw a towel around his waist, and stepped out to see what the hell was going on.
"Don't you dare walk away when I'm talking to you!" His father's voice greeted him when he opened the door.
One hand holding up his towel, Dean walked the few steps to the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway, knowing better than to get in the middle of one of his father's and brother's fights.
Sam was hobbling his way towards him with his head down, but Dean knew Sam couldn't see him through his thick bangs. He wasn't focused on running to Dean for help but to the exit for salvation. Dean doubted Sam realized he was even there.
"I'm not done talking to you, young man!" John bellowed, his face turning bright red with anger, as he reached out a massive hand towards Sam's shoulder.
The moment the hand made contact Sam whipped around, his left crutch flying towards John's midsection. Always alert to his surroundings, John reached down his hand and grabbed the crutch before it had a chance to hit.
Thrown off by the lack of support, Sam lost his balance and started tumbling backwards. Dean immediately rushed forward and caught him, his strong arms holding the kid up by his armpits.
Sam still never acknowledged his brother. He reached out and grabbed his crutch from his father's outstretched hand and made his way towards the exit once more.
Dean stood there, entranced by the scene that played out before him. He watched as his father took one step forward. All anger seemed to melt away from his body as he watched his son, attempting to find his bearings again.
John ran a weary hand over his face. "Sam, I'm worried about you. You have to train to make sure something like this doesn't happen to you again."
Sam froze mid step. Even through the clothes that draped over his skeletal body, his tremors were evident. He turned around as best as he could, his arms shaking in the process. For the first time since his rescue, Sam looked John in the eye. "You think it's my fault, don't you?" Sam almost whispered, his tone taking an almost deathly edge.
An edge Dean had never heard from his baby brother before.
Inch by inch, Sam hobbled towards John, his eyes never leaving his father's face. "You think they got the drop on me like some stupid civilian."
"Don't put words in my mouth, boy," John replied, his voice strong and sure.
"You think it." Sam stopped a mere inches from John, his height bringing him eye to eye with the man. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe it was your fault? That maybe you're the fuck up?"
John never missed a beat. "I'll say it. I fucked up. We all did. We should have found you sooner."
That seemed to infuriate Sam even more. "No, not we, Dad," he said as he glanced back towards Dean, for the first time acknowledging his presence. "You fucked up. You didn't finish the job. You went out on a vampire genocide with one of your little hunting buddies and left one behind and pissed off. And what better revenge than your own son, right?"
Dean took a step forward, not sure if he should stop the feud. But a small, guilty part of him was happy to see Sam talking again, no matter what his words claimed. And an even guiltier part just wanted to learn more.
It had been years since any of them hunted vampires. He tried to remember the last time his father left them to hunt them.
Sam stepped back and hunkered down against his crutches. He resumed the pose that was so natural to him that Dean began to wonder if he would ever see his tall, proud brother again. "You can't blame me for this one," he muttered.
Dean's brow furrowed at Sam's accusation. He looked over at his father, hoping maybe he would know. If John had idea what Sam was talking about, it was impossible to tell. John was as composed as ever.
Sam started backing away, "Doesn't matter now." He slowly turned around all fight in his eyes gone. "You killed her. You killed them all. No harm no foul."
Dean wanted to interrupt and tell Sam how wrong that sentence was. There was harm, he was harmed. And that was a mistake Dean would never make again. But one look at Sam told him that this was neither the place nor time.
Without another word, Sam slid past Dean and limped out the back door.
-:-
Dean was trapped in another sleepless night. After the fight, John left for the library and came back later that evening, smelling like beer and smoke. He took one look at Sam through the door left ajar, before collapsing on his bed. Meanwhile, Sam spent the whole day on his hammock, never coming in even to eat.
While he was pretending to be asleep, Dean heard Sam plop into bed several minutes before, so his mind was at ease.
Or, at least, it should have been.
But every time he closed his eyes he saw the way Sam looked at his father that morning. The cold tone that spewed from Sam's mouth. And most of all, Sam's accusations and the meaning behind him.
Was it true? Did his dad screw up and put his youngest son at risk?
Dean hoped not, but something told him it was. If he really thought about it, it didn't seem like too far of a stretch. It was a dangerous job, all too easy to make a mistake. They had all been there before, fortunately, another Winchester was there to right the wrong.
And in essence, that was all this was. Sam had to right the wrong that John committed years ago. But it should have never fallen on young Sammy's shoulders. The burden was too great.
It was far too great for anyone to handle alone.
Too bad Sam wouldn't let anyone else help him.
As if sensing his thoughts, Sam's soft whisper broke the deafening silence.
"Dean?"
Dean turned his head towards the other bed. It was too dark to see anything but the large lump burrowed beneath the sheets. "Yeah?" he grumbled, sleep affecting his voice.
"You awake?"
Dean slightly smirked at that. Of course he was awake, he was the one talking, wasn't he? "No," he joked.
"Oh, okay."
Dean heard his brother roll over. "Sam, I was just messin' around. I'm awake," he said as he rolled his eyes, grinning at his brother's stupidity. Kid needed to loosen up, that was for sure.
Sam rolled back, and Dean could tell he was facing him, even in the dark.
"Oh, okay," Sam repeated, his voice soft and dreary.
Dean looked at Sam, waiting for more. Surely, Sam wasn't just randomly curious if Dean was awake at this ungodly hour. When he realized Sam was perfectly content at staring at each other in the dark, Dean prompted, "So, what's up?"
Sam stayed quiet for a loud moment, undoubtedly trying to find his words. Dean laid back and waited, he would wait forever if he had to. As long as Sam would just tell him something. Anything.
Sam's voice drifted through the air, barely louder than a whisper. "How did you find me?"
Dean had been expecting the question. More specifically, Dean had been expecting the question back at the hospital two weeks ago. However, Sam never bothered asking Dean or his dad. That should have been Dean's first clue that this wouldn't be an easy fix. Sam always needed to know the details.
At least Sam was asking now. That was a good sign…right?
Dean turned his head towards Sam and said, "Got whiff of a couple vamps in town and followed one back to the nest. We had no idea if we would actually find you there."
Sam simply nodded. In the dark, Dean could barely make out a hint of smile. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but he was glad that his answer satisfied his brother. Anything to get rid of that troubled look Sam always seemed to be wearing.
Dean had his own crooked smile by the time Sam asked, "Was she with anyone else?"
He furrowed his brow at that and thought back to the large, bald man he and his father stealthily followed back to the secluded house. "It was a guy. A fugly one at that."
If Dean hadn't been watching so closely he would have missed the way that Sam flinched back.
Smile completely gone, Sam pursed his lips for a moment. "Oh. Okay." He immediately rolled over, effectively ending the conversation.
Dean continued to stare at the back of Sam's head. He could swear he felt whiplash for Sam's sudden mood change. "Well, goodnight, Sam." Dean rolled on his back and planned for another night of staring at the ceiling.
A mumbled "goodnight" was his only response.
-:-
Dean woke up to the sound of running water. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he saw the first hints of morning light filtering through the crooked blinds. The alarm clock across the room obnoxiously flashed 5:27 AM.
Flopping over on his stomach, he noticed the light streaming out below the bathroom door. He closed his eyes and hoped to God Sam just had to take a quick wiz. "Sammy, what are you doing in there?"
Instead of the expected, 'Mind your own business, I can take a freakin' piss by myself', Dean heard a clang and a hastily replied, "Nothing!"
There was little Sam could have said to have gotten Dean out of bed faster. "Nothing my ass," he muttered as he stumbled to the door.
From the other side, Dean could still hear Sam's cast thunk on the ground as he scrambled around. Whatever he was up to, Sam definitely didn't want Dean to know…which was pretty much the only reason why Dean knew he had to know.
Dean pushed open the door to find Sam hastily washing a knife in their tiny sink.
Sam quickly looked up and stepped back. "Dean."
The blood was the first thing Dean noticed. There were still traces of blood on the knife. There was blood on Sam's arm.
There was blood in Sam's mouth.
And the only thing Dean could think was vampire.
Dean immediately rushed forward, slamming Sam against the wall. Twisting the knife out of Sam's hand, Dean threw it across the room. Sam kept screaming something, but Dean couldn't hear it over the rushing in his ears. Dean grabbed the back of Sam's neck and turned his head to take a look at his little brother's bloodstained teeth.
That was when he realized that he was screaming too. "Did they turn you? Did they fucking turn you?"
Before he could respond, Dean had his hand in Sam's mouth, running his fingers across his gum line.
Nothing happened. No descending teeth. No pointy fangs.
Dean took a small step back. He saw Sam fighting the grip he still had on his neck. More importantly, he could feel (practically hear) his brother's pounding heart.
…vampires didn't have pulses.
Vampires have descending fangs, and Sam did not. Vampires didn't have a pulse; Sam's pulse could be heard throughout the room. Vampires drank blood…
…and so did Sam.
Dean shuffled backwards and sat down on the edge of the tub. "What…What the fuck, Sam?" he whispered.
Sam grabbed a towel from the rack next to him and placed it over his bleeding arm. His eyes analyzed around the small bathroom, as if looking for an escape route.
"What's wrong with you?" Dean screamed.
Sam immediately shrunk back, pressing his back against the wall. "I just…" he trailed off, absentmindedly pressing the towel against his cut.
Dean thought back to the past month. The inattention, the evasiveness, the silence. It was enough to make him go mad.
"You just what? Use your goddamn words, Sam!"
Sam shifted his weight off of his broken leg and stared at the moldy corner by the sink. "I just wanted to see what was so special about it," he whispered.
"So special about what…being a vampire? You want to be one of them now?"
Sam immediately looked up, his eyes wide. "No! Of course not!"
"Then what? Special about what?"
"My blood, okay! They kept saying it was special!"
Jesus Christ. Dean ran his hand over his face. Is this what had gotten his brother's panties in a twist over the past month? "Sam, of course blood's special to them. They're vampires."
"No, not just blood. MY blood." Sam looked back down at his feet, his too-long bangs hiding his face. "They said it was…powerful or something," he whispered.
Dean sighed, suddenly exhausted. He was clearly out of his depth with Sam's broken mental psyche but at least there was one thing he could fix.
He reached out his placed his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Okay, Okay. Let's just…get you cleaned up."
-:-
Sam's arm was an easy fix. Luckily, the cut was shallow enough that it didn't even need stitches. Dean hoped that Sam had enough sense at the time that he planned it that way.
Then again, how much sense could he have when he'd been digging a knife into his own arm?
"What's going on with you, Sam?" Dean asked from his spot next to him on the bed. He stared at the generic picture of a deserted landscape hanging on the wall. Dean hoped the lack of eye contact would make it easier for Sam as well.
Sam fingered the medical tape around his arm. "Nothing. It's just-"
Dean immediately cut him off. "No, it's not nothing. And it shouldn't be nothing. You were gone for four days, Sam."
Sam hung his head. "I…I just need some time to figure this out, that's all."
"Some time…I can do that." Dean responded as he placed his hand on his brother's uninjured knee. "And while you're 'figuring this out', you're going to start telling me what's going on in that big mind of yours."
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam nod. After a long silent moment, Sam moved to stand up. Dean immediately tightened his grip on Sam's leg. "Starting now."
"Dean-" Sam practically whined.
"No, I'm pretty sure weren't thinking about me during your lounges in the sun." He moved his hand and leaned back. "I'm pretty awesome, so I wouldn't blame you-"
Sam shoved him over in response. "Don't flatter yourself."
"So if it wasn't me, then…" Dean prompted as he pushed himself back up.
Sam sighed and scratched the back of his neck. "There was this girl, okay?"
Dean wasn't sure what he was expecting, but a girl vampire was nothing out of the ordinary and definitely nothing that required Sam's level of evasiveness. "…and?"
"And she was…different," Sam answered, clearly putting a lot of thought into how to describe the mysterious female vamp.
Dean narrowed his eyes, trying to decode Sam's response. "So, not a bloodsucking vamp?"
Dean was almost concerned about the laugh he got in response.
"No," Sam responded in between his chuckles. "She definitely had the bloodsucking down." He bit his lip and immediately sobered up. "She just cared. That's all."
"Uh-huh."
Sam turned to look at him and immediately looked away. Dean felt ashamed of the doubt Sam must have seen in his face. Dean just had a hard time understanding anyone who sympathized with a monster. And Sam wasn't just sympathizing with a vampire; he actually seemed to care for a vampire that almost killed him.
"Look, I know it doesn't make sense but she helped. A lot." Sam hunched his shoulders and muttered, "And in return, I got her killed."
"Sam, look at me." Dean used his best Dad-voice in hopes Sam would understand the importance of what he was about to say. He waited several seconds until Sam maintained his eye contact. "She was dead the moment she hurt you."
Sam stayed quiet for a long moment. He finally looked away and sighed, "I'm tired."
Dean stood up and tossed him a pillow. "Okay, but this isn't over." He stayed for a moment, watching Sam awkwardly move beneath the blankets, turned off the light, and left.
-:-
"Where are we going?"
Dean didn't even bother to take his eyes off the dirt road. "For the last time, I'll tell you when we get there. Twenty questions isn't fun if you keep asking the same question."
Sam leaned against the passenger window and muttered, "Twenty questions isn't fun. Period."
Dean pulled the Impala off the road and continued to drive on the grassy field for several meters. Stopping next to a tree, he turned off the engine and motioned for Sam to get out.
Sam grabbed his crutches hobbled out of the car and grabbed his crutches from the back seat. "What's this?" he asked has he moved next to Dean in front of the car.
"See that area of dirt before the hill?"
Dean watched as Sam noticed the large patch of brown dirt amidst the vast green field.
"That's where Dad buried the vamps."
"Oh."
When it was clear Sam wasn't going to say anything else, Dean looked away and pretended to find something in the tree that was particularly interesting. "So, you can say bye…or whatever your strange brain needs."
Dean stood next to Sam for a long minute, then patted his brother's shoulder and turned away. Whatever his brother needed, it was clear that Dean had already done his part and was no longer required.
"Dean," Sam said has Dean opened the driver's door.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
Leave it to his brother to need to pay his respects to a bunch of vamps who tortured him. Dean cringed internally as he thought of what the vamps had said about Sam's blood being special. Sam was certainly special. Special in a messed-up, crazy, and unequivocally Sammy way that is.
No, his brother wasn't special. He was weird. But at least he was back to being Sammy weird.