He Ain't Heavy
Dean watches from the safety of reinforced iron, hating the fact that he is even admitting that particular thought, his brother lying on the cot in the corner of Bobby's panic room. The devil's trap fan, spinning slowly, casts eerie shadows on the floor of the chamber and somehow makes the already horrific scene even more unbearable. Because devil's traps are meant for demons; not his pain in the ass little brother with the too long hair and the obsession with rabbit food and research. Not for Sammy.
But Famine's greedy tendrils have outstretched throughout the town; somehow avoiding Dean, but striking all other inhabitants, and even visitors. Gluttony, sex... Cas is strangely addicted to red meat, and, worse still, his younger brother is once again craving the taste of demon blood. Dean knows it isn't his fault; God knows the kid tried to kick it. Hell, he is the one to have suggested this lock down in the first place. But it doesn't make it any easier for Dean to have to watch his brother endure the detox. At every desperate cry for his brother, Dean feels his heart break a little more. The shakes, the hot sweats, the screams... Dean tries to comfort, calls from the other side of the door words he hopes will calm Sam. But nothing seems to work.
"Jesus, Cas," Dean moans when the angel drops in to check on the Winchesters. "I can't stand it. I hate seeing him like this." He massages the back of his neck, knowing that this simple act will do nothing to relieve the tension; he doesn't want to. Fuck, Sam is going through hell, just on the other side of these walls; he has no right to complain about stiff shoulders.
"Your brother is strong, Dean," Castiel tells him, and Dean nods faintly. He knows that. Sam's kicked this before, right? But at another desperate cry of "Dean!" from the panic room, the elder Winchester cringes. "I know he's been through a lot, but this..." He feels his eyes well up, quickly brushes them away. Sam's screams have ceased, but now Dean can hear soft moans and he remembers Sam telling him that the kid had been hallucinating the last time he was detoxing. What is he seeing? And then, he hears the three words that nearly break his heart.
"Dean, I'm sorry."
Dean nearly loses it. "Cas, can't you do anything for him? Use your mojo or something?" Cas tilts his head in that funny way of his, as if assessing the situation. A moment later, he shakes his head. "You have no faith, Dean."
Dean feels fury well up inside, and controls the urge to punch his friend in the face, angel or no. Cas somehow senses this, and with a look, Dean feels himself calm slightly. But the heat isn't gone yet. "How do you expect me to have faith, huh? Apparently I'm supposed to wear Michael to the prom, and Sammy's supposed to say yes to Lucifer. So tell me, you junkless sonofabitch, how do you expect me to have faith when our 'destinies' are already fucking mapped out?"
"Because you have faith in your brother."
Dean pauses. Cas is right. He does have faith in Sam. He's gone through hell all his life, and every single time, he's come out the victor. Slowly he turns and peers through the grimy, heavy pane of glass at his brother, who is now curled up on the cot, freakishly long legs brushing against his chin. His eyes are closed, as if in prayer, and Dean remembers that Sam has always been the believer of the two. The one who believed in the possibility of angels long before Castiel had pulled him from the pit. The one who had admitted praying every night as a kid, and likely still does to this day. And even more surprising, Sam has faith in him. After everything Dean has done in the past, even years of torture, Sammy has faith in him. Because he's his brother.
Dean turns slowly, breathing deeply in an attempt to regain his composure. "You're right,C-". But, of course, the angel is gone. Dean rolls his eyes, slides down to the ground in exhaustion. He sits there, waiting, until finally Sam is quiet, the physical and mental strain taking its toll. Cautiously, Dean sits up, peeks into the dungeon-like chamber (God, I can't believe I locked my brother in a fucking dungeon!). Sure enough, Sam is asleep on the cot, not the relaxed slumber of one settling into a soft, comfortable rest of one's own bedroom; not even the soundless sleep of either brother after a long day of hunting, passing out in a shitty, uncomfortable motel bed. Because Sam is trembling in his sleep, no doubt haunted by nightmares. Every now and then, he calls out for their mother, or Jess. The ones that hurt the most, though, that pierce through Dean's very soul, are when his brother calls out for him. And he couldn't be there for him.
XXX
When Sam wakes up, he finds that he is not alone. Dean has decided to forgo any potential harm his younger brother might (albeit unintentionally) bestow upon him, and is curled up at the foot of the cot, asleep. Beside him, a bottle of water and some ibuprofen wait, along with a box of unsalted crackers. The kid has gone a while without eating, after all. Slowly Sam opens grimy eyes, immediately squinting them shut again at the sudden agony pounding in his skull. For a moment, Sam's afraid he will be sick, vomit all over himself like a child or (worse still) on the older man sleeping beside him. Or at least, the things that will be his fear. But a quick look at his writs tell the younger Winchester that the cuffs securing him to the cot have been removed. Dean has slipped into the room while Sam is asleep to remove them. Sam feels a lump forming from beneath his throat at the gesture. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve the special treatment, the Advil, the love and affection his brother is giving him.
Sam sighs, sitting up gingerly. Dean looks terrible, heavy bags beneath closed eyes, several days worth of stubble reminding him that his brother has likely not left Bobby's basement from the moment he was sent down here, other to fetch him the water and food, or any other such business. Sam doesn't deserve it. It pains him that his brother is sacrificing his own well being for a fucking junkie.
A few stray tears well in Sam's hazel eyes and he brushes them away, just as his older brother stirs beneath him. "Sammy?" he mutters, the concern for the younger present despite his sleep filled voice.
"How long have you been here, Dean?" Sam's voice is raspy from misuse, and Dean immediately unscrews the cap on the bottle of water, gently helping his brother take a few tentative swallows. Sam nods his thanks, even though he still thinks he doesn't deserve any of this.
"Don't worry about that, Sam. You hungry? I have saltines. If you want I can whip up some tomato rice soup. Or some grilled cheese..."
"I'm sorry." Dean pauses in surprise at his brother's admission.
"What for?"
"This." Sam gestures around him, at how horrible he looks with his blood shot eyes, sweat slick face and tangled mop of hair. "For making you go through all that shit." He looks down, ashamed, unable to meet Dean in the eye. "For letting it get control of me."
"Hey, look at me. Look at me!" Dean gently lifts his brother's face, hazel irises meeting jade. "This is not your fault. Got that? Famine was fucking around with everyone here, not just you, Sammy. He made you fall off the wagon. You are not to blame for this, so you may as well quit the horseshit now, got it?" Sam nods, but doesn't seem convinced. "But I let you down," he finally admits softly.
"Now that is crap. Sammy, you did not let me down, got it? Fuck, you knew this was going to happen even before it happened, right? If anything, this is my fault for not getting you help sooner. But, what''s done is done, ok? You got through this."
"I'm an addict..."
"No." Dean feels the emotion, his chest tightening as he tries so hard not to cry in front of Sam. He has to be the strong one. He can't fall apart, not when Sam is barely keeping it together. He needs Sam to believe this. "You're my brother." Sam finally looks up, eyes bright with the tears he is trying so hard not to shed. He nods, allows his brother to gently drape the lone, musty blanket over his shoulders.
It's all he really needs.