SUMMARY: Sam's had his soul back for almost a month. The boys are still learning how to cope with the broken wall. Things go downhill when Sam gets sick.
A/N: Fluffy brother fluff is fluffy. Not much else going on here to be honest. I think I'm having brother hug/touching withdrawal or something?
Nights have always been the worst.
Because it's the darkness living inside, twisting your soul wrong and bad, coming out to play. Showing you the living, walking nightmare you've become. Asking you why you're still trying.
And it holds on, trying its damnedest to suffocate everything that matters… until morning breaks and you breathe for a while longer.
Dean doesn't remember how he survived those nights after Hell spit him up. He doesn't remember because drinking himself to death became his number one priority.
He wishes he couldn't remember the first time Sam saw him break. Sitting on the hood of his car beside his brother should have been the safest place. Instead, it was a reminder of everything he'd lost. He'd never felt so alone.
It didn't get better. He'd just learned to ignore how bad things were. Denial was his best fucking friend. Push it down until you can't feel it. If you can't feel it, it doesn't exist.
Sam's been back – really back – almost a month.
And Dean's happy. Happier than he's been in a lifetime. Because they won. Sam won.
But he's not stupid. It won't last. Nothing ever does.
A lot can happen in a month. For instance, your best friend up and decides playing God will solve everyone's problems. And his first order of business is to break your brother's head. It's pretty fucking funny how someone can go from being a trusted confidant to your worst enemy.
Yeah, life's been real funny lately.
So he savors the rare moments of whatever their normal is now, pretends those moments aren't a thing of the past.
Sam's quiet.
Everything's so quiet now.
Dean misses the little brother who yammered incessantly about something geeky just because it interested him. Or pushed Dean until he exploded because Sam needed his brother to talk to him. It drove Dean nuts.
But he misses it.
Because Sam doesn't talk much at all anymore.
Sam won't tell Dean that he's broken and lost and sinking further every day. He won't tell him that most days he's too terrified to be left alone and that's why he rarely lets Dean out of his sight.
Sam's learned that pain helps anchor him to reality. He's learned to ignore horrible things that don't make any sense. When his brother spears his hand with a fork or Bobby's intestines spill out all over the kitchen floor, he digs his nails into the palm of his hand and waits until it's over.
He tries his best to eat whatever Dean makes for him, knowing it gives his brother a temporary sense of control. And when he can't keep his food down, he does his best to be quiet about it.
Most days he does a pretty good job. He's getting the hang of it.
Because he's still a Winchester. Because Winchester's grit their teeth and ride it out. Because, "I'm fine, Dean".
That is until he's not anymore. Until the night the other shoe drops and there's nothing either of them can do about it.
Sam's been dazed and jittery since he woke up. Normally, he'll make an effort to reassure Dean he's still functioning. Today, he's barely mumbled two words. He didn't want any breakfast and spent most of the morning crammed in the corner of the sofa with his laptop. It took him an hour to slough through one article because he couldn't seem to focus.
Dean watches him scroll down then back up over the same freaking paragraph four different times before he can't stand it anymore.
"You feel all right?"
He brushes the back of his hand against Sam's forehead. His skin's clammy and uncomfortably warm.
Sam shrugs but doesn't push Dean's hand away. Dean shakes his head because what a ridiculously giant girl…his little brother's always craved contact when he's feeling really shitty. Lately, he's been craving it more than ever.
"M'fine," he croaks, breath wheezing a little.
Dean frowns, watching Sam's hands tremble over the keyboard.
"You should head up and get some rest."
"M'good."
"You're getting sick."
"M'not. Just a cold."
Dean frowns for a few more seconds before grabbing a thick wool blanket off the battered armchair and tossing it unceremoniously at Sam.
"Idiot," he mumbles under his breath as he retreats to the kitchen, hoping Bobby has some really fruity teabags stashed somewhere.
ooooooooooo
Dean startles awake in the middle of the night. He's not sure why but decides maybe he was having a nightmare.
He rolls over onto the mound of pillows, trying to get comfortable again. There's a nagging feeling sitting heavy in his stomach that's making it impossible.
As long as he's awake he might as well check on Sam. His brother tumbled into bed hours ago, completely exhausted because the moron was definitely sick. Dean hoped maybe he could just sleep it off.
He pads down the chilly hallway, rubbing the sleep from his gritty eyes. His brother's room is quiet. He cracks the door anyway just to be sure.
For a moment it's too dark to make anything out. When Dean's eyes adjust he does a double take and feels his heart jumping into his throat.
Sam's bed is empty. The sheets are disheveled and kicked around all over the place as if he'd spent hours thrashing in them. And his brother wasn't using the bathroom, so what the hell?
The logical part of Dean's brain argues that Sam's just getting a drink of water or something. And yet somehow he knows he wouldn't find his brother downstairs. Instinct roots him to the spot.
"Sam?" Dean steps into the room, straining his eyes over the area.
Sure enough, a soft shudder of breath echoes from somewhere in the far corner. It's still too dark to make out much of anything. He risks reaching for the lamp on the bedside table.
Sam's hunched down like a turtle in the corner, wrapped up in a brown hoodie Dean didn't know he still had. His arms are clasped impossibly tight around his knees.
Sam's fingers are kneading and gripping the flesh of his calves like he's trying to dig out the crazy.
He's crying; silent tears leaking furiously down his cheeks but he doesn't seem to notice. Sam doesn't seem to notice anything.
Dean falls to his knees in front of his brother, doesn't know whether it's safe to try and touch him, so he doesn't. He has to sit on his hands.
Sam's sweating, cheeks flushed red with a raging fever and he's breathing in small, panicked hiccups. His eyes are bloodshot and glazed over. They remind Dean of a corpse. He swallows down the surge of bile in his throat.
"Hey…" Dean hates the way his voice catches. Hates how scared out of his mind he can't admit he is.
Because what if this is it? What if Sam finally broke? What if Dean can't put the pieces back together again?
Sam doesn't react to his brother's voice. Just stares straight ahead into Hell and cries so fucking quietly and Dean can't follow him in.
"Sammy…" In spite of his best efforts, Dean's hand sort of does its own thing and ends up on top of Sam's knee. His brother doesn't jerk away, but he doesn't do anything else either. It's like Sam's brain is stuck.
"Look at me," Dean orders, despising the desperate need he hears clogging his throat, making it difficult to swallow. He crawls up as close as he dares, gripping Sam's face in both hands. His brother's skin is on fire.
"Jesus Christ, Sam," Dean feels a furious swell of panic and he's not sure how he let it get this bad. "Okay…okay, it's time to come back now. You hear me?"
Sam's lips part, moving soundlessly.
"That's it," Dean praises, his grip tightening. "Look at me, kiddo." Sam's hot tears are running over his thumbs. Dean wipes frantically at them.
Sam's glassy eyes are completely dilated, almost black with terror. He blinks suddenly, disoriented gaze jerking around the room before landing hesitantly on Dean.
His breath hitches twice before he quiets again.
"Sammy?" Dean thumbs away fresh tears and he's so close their noses probably touch but he doesn't care. Doesn't care about anything except getting his brother back and keeping him. "You know where you are? Can you tell me? Tell me where you are."
Sam's hands are still clenched abusively around his bruising calves but now that he's found Dean it's like he can't look anywhere else.
There's a long, dreadful pause. During those ten horrible seconds Dean's fear almost gets the better of him.
"B-Bobby's?"
Sam's voice is little more than a cracked whisper. He stubbornly grinds his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut and breathes the word with a little more confidence.
"Bobby's."
"Good," Dean chokes. "That's real good, Sam."
Sam's teeth started chattering a few seconds ago and now he can't seem to stop.
"De –" Sam moans, dropping his head to his chest as if the effort of holding it up is just too much.
Dean immediately pulls Sam against him.
"I'm here, man," he grabs a handful of Sam's stupid hair. "I'm right here."
Sam's arms hang uselessly, spread on the floor as if he has no control over his body. But when Dean embraces him, Sam presses his face into the crook of his brother's neck. Wet tears and hot, unsteady breaths prickle against Dean's skin.
"It got bad," Sam mumbles helplessly. "It got really bad."
"I know," Dean holds his brother tighter and rubs his back. Never could break the old, automatic gesture of comfort. "You've got a fever. You're just sick, bud. That's all."
"He…he won't go away," Sam hiccups through a repressed sob, buries his face deeper into his brother's shoulder. It hurts but Dean refuses to pull away.
"You don't listen to him," Dean says, gripping the kid possessively. "You listen to me, all right? Sam. You listen to me."
Sam finally reaches up, latches on to his brother and his fingers twist and twist in Dean's shirt.
"Don't let me go to sleep."
Jesus, he's terrified.
"Sammy –" Dean's hand tangles in his brother's sweaty hair.
"Don't let me." Sam's voice is hoarse with urgency, breaking all over the place. "Please." His fingers twist the fabric so hard his knuckles crack. "I'll forget again."
"What?" Dean's voice is strained, spread too thin.
"I can't forget where I am."
His brother's glassy, haunted eyes bore a hole straight through Dean, pleading with him.
"Okay."
It's all Dean can manage. Because fat shit-load of good his promises will do Sam right now.
At some point, Dean has to reach for the wastebasket because Sam's panicky and out of it, slurring that he's too hot and feels like he's gonna throw up. So Dean unzips his hoodie and holds his hair out of his face while Sam gags over the trashcan.
"We're fine," Dean soothes while Sam shudders and heaves against him. "It's fine."
But it's not. His little brother's a fucking furnace.
"Don't wanna do this anymore," Sam coughs, shaking violently because of course now he can't get warm.
Dean doesn't trust himself to speak. So he zips up his brother's goddamn hoodie, grabs the comforter off the bed and pulls Sam back into his arms.
They stay like that for a long time, neither willing to let go.
On a rational level, Dean realizes he probably ought to be working on coaxing Sam's fever down. But he can't make himself push Sam away. Not when his brother's falling apart, clinging to the edge of sanity like this.
Sam slips in and out of consciousness. Once in a while his breathing escalates until he's gasping erratically. But Dean calls him back.
"Stay here, Sammy. You don't listen to a damn word that sonovabitch says."
Sam heaves weakly, coughing over Dean's shoulder in response. Like something's choking the air from his lungs but goddammit don't think about that right now.
"I've got you. Still got you."
Dean feels some of the tension in Sam's knotted muscles ebb away.
"That'a boy," Dean presses his chin on top of Sam's messy hair. "Tell 'em to fuck off."
A few minutes later, Sam's breathing a little easier. Dean glances down to check on his brother.
"Okay?"
"M'here," Sam slurs. He's emotionally wrecked and so exhausted he can barely talk.
"You're doin' good."
Sam coughs wetly, trying to turn his head away from where he's slipped down against Dean's chest.
"M'sorry," he whispers. "Sorry…"
"Quit it," Dean's voice is firm. Sam stills against him instantly. "You're a fucking superhero, kid, you know that?"
Sam's breath hitches, all horrible and broken.
"M'not super, D'n." He's shaky and wasted, voice thick with tears. "I'm a nightmare."
"Sam, you're the bravest person I know."
"No," Sam chokes bitterly. "Don' –"
"We're gonna make it, little brother."
Sam just shakes his head into Dean's chest, twisting Dean's shirt around and around his fingers until he cuts off the circulation.
Dean rubs his thumb over the back of Sam's wrist, gently coaxing him to let go of the fabric.
"We're gonna make it."
Sam's fever breaks with daylight a few hours later. He's weepy and exhausted and way too fucking emotional for Dean to deal with much longer.
He manhandles an overly pliant Sam back to bed and force-feeds him orange juice laced with something to help him sleep.
Finally, Dean sinks down on the mattress and pats his brother's chest. Sam blinks up at him, already looking pretty loopy.
"I'll check on you in a few."
"Mmm…" Sam hums as his eyelids grow heavy.
"M'kay," Dean gives his brother a final pat and pushes himself off the bed. He's just so fucking tired.
"Hey…hey, D'n?" Sam's voice is a floaty, drunken murmur.
"Yeah?"
"Y'were right."
"Damn straight." Dean's response is automatic.
Listening to Sam's painful breath of laughter triggers an ache deep in a hollow part of himself Dean's not prepared to face.
"M'still here…"
The grateful relief in Sam's voice makes Dean's stomach churn. He swallows hard, clamping down like he's supposed to do.
"Get some sleep."
"'Kay."
Dean leaves the door cracked open about halfway. He reaches for the frame, swaying unsteadily on legs that have essentially been asleep for the past five hours.
For a moment he wonders how many more nights like this Sam will endure.
How many before his brother won't have to anymore?
END