The Levee Broke
Sequel to "When The Levee Breaks"
AN: To everyone who gave me such an incredible response to When the Levee Breaks and wanted to see more, this is for you! It picks up where the last one left off, so enjoy! I don't think I'll be continuing this storyline any further but I want you all to know you're all awesome and you all get virtual leftover Christmas cookies. This one's dark, more so than the last story, so be warned. High T for language, but don't blame me for it— I imagine Dean gets profane when he's upset.
And in case you don't want to go back and read the story that comes before this one, all you really have to know that it's post "Appointment in Samarra" and that the wall has come down. Here's the fallout.
It's not working…
It's not working...
ItsNOTworking—
NOTHING is freaking WORKING.
Dean shook his head a few times, trying to dislodge these words from his mind—words that had been following him around, nagging at him, plaguing his thoughts for weeks. He couldn't think those words, he couldn't—
Because if he did, he might realize the truth of them.
When a fist connected hard with his jaw, Dean realized that he'd slackened his grip on Sam's arms too soon.
"Dammit, boy, get your head outta your ass and help me out here!" Bobby snapped, leaning over the mattress to maintain his hold on Sam's flailing legs.
"Sorry," Dean muttered, grabbing Sam's arms and pinning them to his sides. Despite Dean's now throbbing jaw, the job of holding Sam down was getting steadily easier by the second as the drugs began to take effect. Sam's eyes were sliding even further out of focus than they usually were, pupils dilated, expression now confused and exhausted rather than mutinous and terrified. He was still breathing hard, and making halfhearted noises of protest, but his limbs were going slack. Finally.
This was becoming standard procedure nowadays for Dean and Bobby, and very occasionally Castiel, when His Feathery Holiness could spare an hour here or there from whatever great crusade he was supposed to be leading upstairs. Not that Dean was bitter or anything…
Anyway, when it came to Sam, they would take shifts, sitting and keeping watch over Sam in what was once an old first floor guest room now bare of everything except a couch and a mattress on the floor. Sam spent most of the time lying limply on the mattress, trembling and staring vacantly at the ceiling, mumbling strings of incoherent sounds under his breath, interspersed with a broken sob or two. Or at least, that was how he spent about half the time. The other half the time was spent violently, Sam thrashing around and screaming his head off. Every day, Dean wondered how the hell he could stand to witness another minute of it. But every day, he did. He had to.
And the heartache of just watching Sam aside, there were a host of logistical problems that came with Sam's states of alternating catatonia and violence. He couldn't walk, he couldn't eat, and he sure as hell couldn't get himself to a bathroom… Bobby managed to pull some strings with some not-so-legal sources of his to get a glucose drip and catheter, which eliminated about half their headaches in this regard. But it didn't solve the fact that during Sam's aggressive spells, he'd rip them both out. Their first thought was to restrain him, but that idea went down the toilet after the very first time they tried it: Sam had just screamed until he was purple in the face, and had gotten himself so worked up, and struggled so wildly against the bonds, that Dean was legitimately worried that they'd give his brother a heart attack or worse if they tried it again.
So with a heavy heart, he'd agreed to Bobby's suggestion thereafter to use low-dosage tranquilizers, also acquired not-so-legally from some hunter friends. Though they often made Sam sick when he woke up, and Dean had to clean vomit off the floor a few times a week, there were undeniable benefits to it. He'd been able to properly stitch up and bandage the mangled skin of Sam's hands from where he'd fallen on that stupid juice glass the day the wall came down. However, to keep Sam from unwittingly tearing the wounds back open, he'd also had to stitch the sleeves of a few of Sam's sweatshirts closed at the ends so he couldn't get to his hands. It was a plan that didn't work out quite as well as expected- having his hands restrained seemed to upset him even on his better days, and he tore through the closed-off sleeves pretty fast, so until the stitches were ready to come out, he'd had to resort to extremely tight bandaging and very close supervision.
He'd also had to take advantage of his brother's drug-induced oblivion to do something that, while rather mundane, made him startlingly sad. He'd had to cut Sam's hair. Apparently, Sam's tendency to inadvertently harm himself extended beyond ripping out some stitches—one night, when he'd dozed off while watching over Sam, he'd woken to find his brother curled in on himself, blood trickling from beneath his hairline down his forehead. A chunk of his hair, complete with skin from his scalp attached to the end of it, was clenched in his fist. Dean was nauseated by the thought that he'd been able to pull that hard, the fact that he hadn't been deterred by pain demonstrating just how far gone Sam really was. He proceeded to pump Sam full of tranquilizers, grab Bobby's kitchen scissors, and shear Sam's hair short enough that he wouldn't be able to keep a hold on it. When he finished, he looked at his handiwork and winced. It was downright miserable-looking, standing out at all sorts of awkward angles, and making his pale, drawn face look both more alien and more vulnerable. If Sam—he gulped back a lump in his throat—if Sam (the real Sam, not this Sam), ever found out what Dean had done to his hair, he'd have torn him a new one. Not that Sam was one for much narcissism but… God, his hair was such an integral part of Sam—his floppy-haired, kid brother Sam—that this wasn't exactly easy to see. Ignoring the dull pain in his chest, he swept the clippings off the mattress, making a mental note to ask Bobby if he had a good razor they could use next time.
But if there was one great thing to be said about the tranquilizers, it meant Sam got some sleep. Actual, uninterrupted sleep, even if drug-induced. And watching him, Dean could almost pretend that Sam was not so destroyed as he really was. That is, if he ignored the unevenly cropped hair, the weeks' worth of stubble, the paleness, the weight loss, and the little lines around his eyes that Dean was sure hadn't been there before the wall broke. If not for all that, he could be sleeping. Right?
Not right. Who the hell was he kidding?
Sam must be in there somewhere, the Sam he'd fought to save. But it didn't seem to matter what Dean did, how many sleepless nights he spent watching Sam toss and turn. It didn't matter how often he begged Sam to wake up, to come back, or the hours he spent on his knees next to the mattress attempting to calm a Sam who was on the edge of a violent outburst, wanting to put a hand on his shoulder to reassure him but knowing better, trying in vain to soothe him with muttering to him that he was there, it was gonna be okay. But his words fell on deaf ears that didn't know Dean's voice from radio static.
And no, it wasn't going to fucking be okay.
Not when Sam was still stuck in hell—his mind was as good as any hell, Lucifer would've made sure of that.
Screw Lucifer.
It's not working…
He didn't know how to make this better. He didn't know where to start.
Once it was clear that there was nothing he or Bobby could do that would get through to Sam, Dean had called for Cas. He didn't expect Cas to come, nor did he really expect him to be able to help—but he was at the end of his rope, so it was better than nothing, right? On the first count, at least, he was proven wrong. Cas did come. And if he hadn't been so sick with worry over Sam, he would've felt a little guilty for automatically assuming Cas didn't give a damn about them just then. Of course he did, and Dean knew that, but he'd just been so conveniently absent or unhelpful for the better part of a year and a half, that Dean couldn't help but harbor some resentment. When Cas did show up, he listened in silence as Dean explained everything he could remember about Sam's resouling, the destruction of Death's wall, and the time in between. He tried to remember exactly what Sam had told him about the wall, and what it felt like. But it wasn't like Sam's description of it made much sense, and he really hadn't talked about it all that much. He didn't like to.
The loud? What's that?
'S what I call the wall.
Why d'you call it that?
Well…uh, because it's…loud.
Okay…
It's gotta be loud, I think. Real loud, y'know, to keep those…voices…away. Drown them out.
"Loud, he said. The wall was loud…And his head was hurting real bad, and he couldn't pay attention to anything very long. He couldn't hear what I was saying to him half the time. And then…then there were these voices, these voices he started hearing in his head—" He was babbling by this point, all the dread he'd felt, and all his horror that Sam was once more lost to him, practically poured into his voice. He knew he probably sounded like a hysterical friggin' chick, but he could care less. Castiel listened attentively, his expression sad and deeply concerned but not exactly surprised. He looked down at Sam.
"Dean, this is…regrettable, but—"
"Regrettable?" Dean spluttered.
"Yes, regrettable," he said. "But not unexpected. I did warn you that this would happen."
"Cas, now is not the fucking time for I told you so's," Dean hissed. "I did what I had to do. If you're not gonna help, then get your ass back upstairs."
Cas glared at him. "Do you want my help, Dean, or are you here to project blame onto me for circumstances beyond my control?" He looked down at Sam, and his expression softened. "I am sorry about Sam."
Dean followed Cas' gaze. Sam was sleeping still, but the tranquilizers were wearing off. His eyes were starting to dart around beneath their lids. "You sure you can't fix him?" Dean muttered.
"I don't believe so," Cas said, but he pushed up his sleeve and held up his arm. "However, there is one way to find out for sure."
"Whoa, whoa, wait," Dean said. "No sticking your hand through Sammy's gut 'till he's a little more stoned. He's about to wake up." And only once Sam was pumped full of more tranqs than Dean was usually okay with, several minutes later, did Dean permit Cas to conduct an investigation. And even though he was pretty sure Sam couldn't feel it, Dean's stomach flip-flopped when he saw Cas's arm disappear up to the elbow in Sam's midriff. Sam's brow furrowed, but he didn't wake.
"Well?" Dean asked once Cas had finished and was rolling his sleeve back down. "The verdict?"
Cas frowned. "His soul is definitely back in place, if that reassures you…"
Dean raised an eyebrow. "And in what kinda shape?"
"What kind of shape do you expect?"
"Cas…."
"Not good," Cas admitted after a pause. "But again, it is not as though this was unexpect—"
"How bad is not good, Cas?" Dean asked tersely.
"He…" Cas sighed. "This is rather difficult to convey in human terminology, but…the best metaphor I can think of is to envision the soul as a piece of woven cloth."
"Cloth?"
"Just go with it, Dean. It's not a perfect metaphor, I realize, but that's the best I can do."
"Alright."
"So if the fabric of a soul was to literally resemble….well, fabric, then Sam's fabric would be…frayed. Torn. Unraveled in places."
"Unraveled?" He looked down at Sam and swore under his breath.
"Yes. And that would explain the strange behavior you described when his soul was first returned to him, despite his not remembering anything of Hell."
"Yeah, about that," Dean interrupted, "what about the wall? Is it really gone?" Of course it was, no shit, but that didn't stop him from wanting confirmation. Even if it was only confirmation that Death was a useless bastard…
"I could not sense anything of that description, no. Nothing residual, either."
"No wall, then."
"If there was one, it's gone now."
"Awesome." Fuck. He wondered if that meant that Sam's "loud" was gone now, and if it was, wouldn't that just make room for more loud, in the form of all those voices that had been terrorizing him right before the wall had broken. Maybe that's what he was doing with all that mumbling when he was awake—trying to talk back to them. That would be like him, wouldn't it? Arguing with the voices in his head, probably telling them to piss off… Trying to beat them back, stave them off. The thought, though devastating, made Dean more than a little proud of his brother. Still fighting.
Hopefully.
"I'm sorry," Cas repeated.
"Yeah, well…" Dean mumbled. If you really were sorry, you'd stay and help me fix it…. He knew Cas would if he could, but still. "So, unraveling, then?"
"Not unraveling. Unraveled."
"What do you mean?"
"The damage has been done. Sam is no longer in hell, so the damage is therefore no longer occurring, and should not continue to occur. Hell is the only place in existence in which the soul can be damaged so thoroughly, because there a soul is just as tangible as any physical object on Earth. And in Hell, Sam was a soul and nothing more, so the damage he incurred was…far from figurative."
"Yeah, I can see that," he said quietly. Yet again, he looked down at Sam, still mercifully unconscious. "But…God, Cas, he can't stay like this. He can't."
Cas shook his head slowly. "Dean…"
"Come on, Cas, there's gotta be something. Some way to, y'know, ravel back up all the unraveled parts?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Would it kill you to try?"
"I did, just now. While examining him. I couldn't even grab hold of it."
"You grabbed hold of mine just fine." Dean tapped the spot on his arm where Cas' handprint was seared into his skin.
"That's because your soul was still intact, Dean. And I was only transporting you then, not trying to heal you."
"So there's nothing you can do? Come on, Cas. I don't buy that," he pleaded, biting back panic.
"If Sam's soul can be repaired, the source of that repair will have to be himself."
"Himself? How?" Oh yeah, that sounded promising.
"I do not know."
"So, what, is he supposed to somehow use the magical powers of love or friendship or some shit like that to knit his own damn soul back together, and then he'll be just peachy?"
"I wouldn't know."
"Great," he growled. "Well thanks, Cas. You can go home now, go play soldier. I'm sure they need you up there right about now, they always do." He plopped down next to Sam. "And don't worry 'bout us, we'll be just fine right here."
Anger flashed in Cas's eyes. "Does the quality of respect mean nothing to you?" he said through gritted teeth.
"Damn straight. Go away." Dean turned away from Cas, reaching for Sam's wrist to double-check his pulse, making sure they hadn't overdone it on the tranquilizers. He expected the faint sound of rustling wings to signify that Cas had left, but to his surprise, he didn't hear it. He looked up.
Sure enough, Cas was still standing there, now looking uncertainly down at Sam.
"What?" Dean snapped.
"If it's any consolation…" Cas started tentatively. "If it's any consolation, the human soul is exceptionally strong. As I said, your own soul made it out of Hell intact. Battered, yes, and traumatized, but with no lasting damage, and with time you healed it."
Dean didn't answer. It depended what you meant by "healed," really. He'd certainly been changed, permanently, for the worse. But even when he came back thinking he couldn't be fixed, and that he couldn't bounce back from having his will broken so thoroughly, he'd eventually sucked it up and kept going, right? But…hadn't Sam's Hell been a billion times worse than his?
"And as to Sam's soul… It may have come back incredibly damaged, but it has not been corrupted. He could very easily have let Hell change him, into a demon or some other evil being, but he did not, and that is a testament to the strength of his soul." He paused. "If there is any way for a soul that has incurred this much damage to—"
"Bounce back?"
"Yes. If there is any way for Sam to, as you say, bounce back, I am certain that he will find it."
And then Cas was gone, leaving Dean alone with a brother who looked so pathetically far from bouncing back that it was almost comical.
It was not long after New Years' that Dean's theory was confirmed—that all of Sam's endless muttering really was directed towards those voices. For the first time, the moaning, the yelling, and the speech-like noises began to resemble actual words, and within a day or two, Dean was able to recognize a few of these words. Mostly, it was names—his own, fairly frequently, and Bobby's, and then "Mom," "Dad," "Jess," "Adam," even "Cas." Names that were often followed up by the word "no." Sometimes his voice was angry, other times beseeching, and often laced with pain. And even though knowing more about what exactly what was going on in Sam's head wasn't exactly pleasant, and it was heart-wrenching to hear his own name so frequently coming out of Sam's mouth, Dean had to admit that it was a sort of relief to hear his formerly incoherent brother using recognizable words.
…Even when he was screaming them.
But Dean had given up hope that these "recognizable words" meant Sam was any closer to escaping the Hell of his mind. Whenever Sam talked, his eyes were still a million freaking miles away. And despite Dean's best efforts to be noticed—putting himself in Sam's line of vision, talking to him for hours—he might as well have been trying to get the attention of a wooden post. There was never a glimmer of recognition in those eyes, not even the slightest indication that his words had been heard. The only thing Sam ever seemed to respond to was touch, and Dean and Bobby had learned early on not to make any more physical contact with him than was absolutely necessary while Sam was awake, because it only startled and upset him, and usually got someone hit or kicked. How effing ironic, just salt in the damn wound—the one way they could get through to Sam was touch, and touching him just aggravated the problem.
But everything's always just like that for us, isn't it, Dean thought bitterly one night as he watched him. Backwards. Fucked up.
Didn't karma, or the grand balance of the universe or whatever, owe them more than this by now? Owe Sam more than this? Not God, though. He'd long since stopped expecting anything from God— stopped thinking or caring about God, or expecting that God cared in the least about him or Sam. And he could care less what Cas had to say about that. Or even what Sam might have to say about it.
It was stupid to think he could've trusted anything, any "higher" power, to look out for them. Hell, the only one he could trust to look out for Sam was himself. But now? Now he couldn't even do that.
Because nothing was working.
So what did he do? Stick to Sam like glue anyway. It was all he could do. And it didn't matter that every single time he walked into this room, he felt like he'd died a little. It didn't matter, because when he was away from him, it was even worse.
But in spite of the total nightmare of it all, he couldn't have asked for anyone better to help him face down said nightmare than Bobby. Dean knew it was a lot to ask of him, given that it had only been a month since Robo-Sam had tried to kill Bobby and almost succeeded. Bobby had indeed been cautious around Sam, telling Dean in private a few days after the resouling that he thought they'd better keep a close eye on Sam in order to make sure he was really back and not somehow trying to fool them. That pissed Dean off at first, especially because Sam was noticing Bobby's behavior and it was making him feel even guiltier than he already did. But even if Dean disagreed, he'd understood Bobby's concern. However, now that the wall was down, he was nothing less than their so desperately needed Uncle Bobby, taking care of Dean as much as he was of Sam. He made sure Dean ate, and slept, both things that were not exactly at the top of Dean's priority list right now, and made vague threats about there being enough glucose solution and tranquilizers for both Winchesters if Dean griped about it. He also made Dean leave Sam's room every once in awhile, sending him to cook or do dishes or house repairs, or sometimes to handle the constant stream of calls and visits from other hunters who looked to Bobby for assistance. Bobby claimed that being there with Sam 24/7 would make Dean go crazy.
And Dean was starting to realize more and more that Bobby might be right about that.
Take tonight, for example. Two in the morning, and he was sprawled out on the couch watching Sam swat weakly at the air and sob out gibberish that was mixed in with cries for Dean. He had a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, and was praying to anyone out there who might be listening—this time he was desperate enough that that even included God—that those stupid tranquilizers would finally kick in and knock Sam out so he wouldn't have to listen to this anymore.
He wasn't surprised when Bobby came in a few minutes later and demanded that Dean leave and go get some sleep.
"'S fine, Bobby," he said in a robotic voice. "He'll be asleep soon. You can go back to bed."
"I wasn't asleep," Bobby pressed. "And I think that right now, you should be."
"I'm fi—"
"Boy, get your ass in bed," Bobby barked. He watched Sam for a second. "You've had enough of this for one night."
"But—"
"Get outta here, Dean. Sam'll still be here in the morning."
Dean had no more energy to argue. And come to think about it, maybe sleep wouldn't be so bad. It'd make that sobbing go away, if only for a few hours. He'd had too much to drink to have nightmares at this point, anyway. Dazed, he vaulted himself off the couch, handed the whiskey off to Bobby's waiting hand, and stumbled a little on his way out the door.
But Bobby's voice stopped him cold. "Dean."
Dean wheeled around.
Bobby's eyes were wide, close to bulging, and his mouth had fallen open. "Dean," he repeated. It sounded like a warning. He nodded towards Sam.
"What—" Dean started, but his words died in his throat when he saw what Bobby was talking about.
There was Sam. Finally lying motionless, but wide awake.
And looking straight at Dean.
Dean's breath caught. Not once, not once in nearly five weeks since the wall had come down, had Sam actually looked at anybody.
Yeah, he was looking all right, but could he actually see?
"Sammy?" Dean's voice was hushed.
Sam squinted, as though trying to focus. His breathing was shallow, and he was holding himself perfectly still.
Dean didn't move, not wanting to startle him. "Sam?" he repeated.
Very slightly, Sam nodded.
Dean's chest constricted at that. Finally…was he…? Trying to get ahold of himself, he took a deep breath, walked back over to Sam, and slowly sat down cross-legged on the floor near his head. "Sammy, you with me?"
Another shaky nod. "D…D-Dnnn?"
"Yeah. Hey." Dean swallowed hard. Very cautiously, Dean reached out and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam didn't flinch away, which he took as a good sign. "'S good to see ya, Sammy. It's been awhile."
"D-D-Dean," Sam finally managed, as if to confirm for himself what he was seeing.
"Yup."
Sam's eyes drifted to the ceiling. "N-nnn…." He looked like he was having a hard time making his mouth form words, in the same way a hypothermia victim might. He'd started trembling.
"No?" Dean guessed.
"N-no," Sam repeated. He squeezed his eyes shut. "N-n-not D-d-dean. 'S n-n-never r-r'ly D-dean."
Great. Dean reached for Sam's nearest wrist with his other hand. Sam didn't fight him.
"It's me, Sammy. I promise." He wrung Sam's wrist a little.
"N-n-nnnn." Sam's eyelids were drooping. Shit. This was the worst possible time for the drugs to actually start kicking in.
"Yes," Dean said firmly. Come on, Sammy, don't fall asleep yet. "It's Dean. And Bobby's here too. We're at his place."
"H-his p-ppp…" Sam tried to parrot. His eyes slowly scanned the room, as if he was seeing it, actually seeing it, for the first time.
"Yeah. His house. Now I need you to stay with me, okay? Can you do that for me?"
Sam's eyes rolled back to Dean. "N-not Dnn," he repeated with conviction.
"Yeah, I am—"
"N-no," Sam cut him off. "T-t-they kill Dean. M-m-make me w-watch. I j-j-just watched."
"Dude, nobody killed me. I'm right here." He felt sick, though. So that's why Sam had been so upset earlier, and calling for him…
Sam ignored him. "O-o-or t-t-t-they want m-me to th-think 's Dean b-but 's r'lly j-just M-m-m…"
"Michael?"
Sam nodded again. He had tears in his eyes. "H-h-he b-burns me. Always b-burns… B-b-b-but y-you d-didn't burn me. I w-watched 'em k-k-kill you j-j-just now, b-but y-y-you…." He trailed off, looking baffled.
"I what, Sam?" Dean pressed.
"Y-y-you were talkin' to m-me, all d-day. I h-h-heard you."
"You heard me," Dean echoed, stunned. He had been talking to Sam today. Not that he thought it would work, but as a last ditch effort for his own sanity's sake, he'd responded tiredly every time Sam had said his name, telling him to calm down, telling him that he was there. Could it have actually worked?
Another nod. "H-h-heard you. In m-m-my head." A long pause, and then Sam was staring at the ceiling again. "B-b-but 's n-n-n-not you."
Dean sighed. "Dammit, Sam…" He tugged Sam's wrist. "Come on, man, don't you remember any of it? Bobby's house, the panic room, the wall, the…" he hesitated, but decided to go on ahead. "The loud? You were back, Sammy. We got you back. You're still back, it's just…there's no loud anymore."
Sam blinked a few times. "N-n-no loud… Just v-v-voices."
"That's right, Sammy," he said earnestly. "They're just voices. They're not real. Don't you remember?"
Sam was silent for a moment. "Y-y-you're lying. Y-you're wrong." He squeezed his eyes shut.
"No, Sam, I'm not wrong," he implored. "I'm not wrong. This is real. I promise, this is all real."
Sam's eyes drifted over the room again. "'S not real," he muttered.
"Yes, it is. Come on, man. You know it is." Great. Now that Sam was awake, and finally, finally back on planet earth, he wouldn't accept planet earth as reality. He was going to trap himself his own mind, simply by choosing not to believe there was an alternative. Wasn't that just like Sam?
"'S not real," Sam repeated. And then he was silent.
Over a minute passed in silence. Dean thought he was asleep.
But then, his eyes cracked back open. "'S not real." He stared at Dean with an expression of longing. He looked so scared, so exhausted, so Sam that it was more than Dean could take. "B-but I want it t-to be."
Eyes burning, Dean nodded. "It will be, Sammy. It will be."
After that, Bobby didn't even try to make Dean leave again. He eventually fell asleep on the floor next to the mattress and his sleeping brother, the couch forgotten. As he was drifting off, he was a little surprised to find that his last waking thought was, Thank God.
Thank God.
Even more surprising?
At that moment, he actually meant it.
End.