Hello! So...this was supposed to have been posted Monday like usual, but life has a way of really making things interesting, does it not? Long story short, had to deal with a cancer diagnosis, a quite impressive incision and nine stitches to my arm following a minor surgery to remove the cancer. The weekend was full of ice packs and stress and HGTV lol. The Lord blessed me greatly, though, and I got a good report this week that they got it all. :) Needless to say, my brain wasn't cooperating with me for writing. Finally, though, this chapter made it through a multitude of revisions and improvements, thanks to my lovely, patient, wonderful beta, and it's ready to go! :)
Thank you all for your amazing and encouraging reviews to chapter one. I wish I'd had the focus to write you all back to personally thank you, but that hasn't quite happened yet. ;)
Hope you enjoy the chapter!
Chapter Two
Sam ran fast and hard.
Too fast and too hard considering he'd just downed a beer on an empty stomach. Didn't help that he was out of shape. All the push ups and sit ups he'd done while imprisoned had been great, but they didn't count as training for an all out run.
He ran like something was chasing him, and maybe something was. Regardless of his need to put some distance between him and his brother, his body gave out on him after a mile.
Gasping for breath, he stopped running and leaned forward, hands on his thighs. It wasn't enough. A wave of lightheadedness swept over him and he fell to his knees. The gravel bit into his fingers and the pain helped him to focus. Breathing through the nausea, he eased himself down until he was flat on the ground.
Closing his eyes, he rested one hand against his stomach, his other hand still pressed into the gravel at his side. There was a very real possibility he was going to throw up. Dean had been right. Drinking that beer without eating anything had been a stupid idea.
He swallowed hard, fighting not to throw up or pass out. Both options seemed equally likely and both options were equally distasteful. It took several minutes before the sensations eased, leaving him exhausted and unable to move. The only positive in all of this was that Dean was back at the Bunker no doubt drinking himself senseless which meant it was unlikely he was going to be attempting to track Sam down.
Of course, thinking about his brother didn't do anything but make the nausea even worse.
Sam opened his eyes and stared up at the cloudy sky. It looked like it was going to rain any moment now, so hopefully he could get off the ground before it started. His stomach flip-flopped and he pushed himself to his side, panting shallowly in an attempt to stave off vomiting.
It took another few minutes of concentration and berating himself for his stupidity before the sensations eased. Wrapping both arms around his stomach, he closed his eyes. Unbidden, thoughts of his conversation with his brother sprang to mind.
"We were in solitary for six weeks. It's not normal to be able to handle that."
It wasn't normal. Nothing about the situation was normal. But, like he'd said, they weren't normal. He wasn't normal.
Their entire discussion had gone off the rails. Even though he'd tried to walk away when Dean's frustration had taken them from conversation to argument, he hadn't escaped in time. His brother's words had hurt; whether he'd really meant for them to or not.
What he'd wound up admitting to his brother had been a mistake and he wished with everything in him that he could take it back.
Of course, if Dean hadn't been verging on a complete loss of control, he wouldn't have been pushed into the confession in the first place. Despite hating himself for his moment of weakness, he was more worried about his brother. The trip home had passed quietly, calmly, and he'd deluded himself into thinking maybe they both could just file the past six weeks away and move on without incident.
Obviously he'd been wrong.
Dean had been falling apart in front of him in a way Sam hadn't seen in quite awhile. His anger had come through very clearly, but it was the underlying fear and anxiety that had been far more concerning. Anger was a tool Dean used. It was a smokescreen that hid any hint of vulnerability. Anyone else might have only seen the anger and simply fought back. But Sam wasn't just anyone. He was the only person in the world who knew Dean better than he knew himself.
And Sam had seen straight past the anger to the raw pain tearing his brother into pieces.
He didn't blame Dean for the anger; thought he had a right to be angry, actually. Sam had spent a lot of time feeling angry, too. He'd felt a lot of things, in fact.
Until he'd given up feeling anything.
A fat, cold, raindrop hit him on the cheek and he forced his eyes open. The sky was darker, the clouds heavier and he'd lost time somewhere along the way. That wasn't good. He checked his watch and, sure enough, he'd walked out of the Bunker over an hour ago.
Struggling upright wasn't an easy process, but he managed to do it without any issues. He had one hand braced in the gravel, just in case, when his phone started ringing. Pulling it out, he was surprised to see it was his mom calling. For a moment, he hesitated to answer the call. What was he going to say to her? And then the concern that something might have happened to Dean hit him. If she was calling him, it meant she hadn't been able to get ahold of his brother.
Sam answered the phone.
"Hi, Sam?" Her tone was tentative, but concerned.
"Hi, Mom. What's up?" Sam cringed. He'd tried to sound upbeat but instead sounded strangled and hoarse.
"Where are you boys? I just got back and I can't get ahold of Dean and I can't find either of you..."
So Dean wasn't still in the kitchen drinking.
"...and the Impala is still here but his room is empty and…"
Sam frowned, trying to pay attention to what she was saying and construct a good response. He was concerned, but had a strong feeling Dean didn't want to be found right now. He was probably holed up somewhere dark and secluded with his own private stash of booze.
"I went for a run," Sam interrupted her. He stared up as the rain began to fall in earnest. "Dean...uh, he had some stuff he wanted to check up on. Maintenance. You know? We haven't been gone this long since we moved in."
It sounded like a pretty good excuse.
"Oh, ok." She sounded convinced. "It was getting pretty cloudy on my way back from town. You should probably head back before the storm hits."
Sam blinked against the rain and said, "Yeah. It's just started raining."
"Are you far?"
He smiled ruefully; not about to admit he'd gone a mile and then been crumpled on the side of the path for an hour.
So he cleared his throat and said, "No, not too far. I'll be back shortly."
"Ok. Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you alright?"
He squeezed his eyes closed, throat tight, wishing she hadn't asked that. After sucking in a slightly painful breath, he said, "I'm good. I'll be back soon."
And then he hung up before she could say anything else.
By the time he made it to the door of the bunker, Sam was verging on collapse again. He was bone-tired, light-headed, soaked, and unsteady. Stumbling down the steps, he clung to the railing because the last thing he needed was to wind up falling on his face in front of his mother.
Mercifully, she wasn't in the room and he made it to the ground floor without incident. He was heading down the hall toward his room when he heard her voice, though. Pausing, he forced a smile and turned around.
"Sam," she said, her greeting smile fading as she closed the space between them. "You're soaked."
"Yeah. Didn't run fast enough," he joked, leaning a shoulder against the wall to hold himself up. The truth was, he hadn't run at all. He had managed to walk and not crawl, so that was something, anyway.
She frowned, stopping a couple feet away. "You look terrible."
He felt terrible, but wasn't inclined to share that fact.
"You should-"
"I'm just gonna go change into dry clothes," he interrupted, tugging at the collar of his soaked t-shirt.
"Ok. And then come to the kitchen. You haven't eaten, have you?"
Rather than answering the question, he simply said, "Ok," and then walked away.
She didn't argue with him or follow him. Sam traced his fingers along the wall as he walked. He didn't want to eat, but knew at this point it wasn't optional. His hands were shaking and he'd pushed himself as far as he could go. So he changed into dry clothes, ignored the bed he wanted to fall into, and slowly walked back to the kitchen.
His mom was sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in her hands.
He sat down across from her, relieved to be off his feet.
"Coffee?" she asked, already rising.
"Sure."
"Do you want anything in it?" She crossed the room for a clean cup.
"Black's fine."
She poured the coffee, then set the cup in front of him. "Are you hungry?"
He wasn't, not really, but knew he should eat so he nodded.
"I picked up some stuff for sandwiches," she said, looking back at the counter where at least six grocery bags were piled. "There's a roast and some potatoes."
He tried to focus as she listed everything else she'd bought. Thinking about food was making him nauseous and even the scent of the coffee was bothering him. Taking a controlled breath, he tried to decide on something. Cereal seemed to be the easiest thing, but a salad made with fresh vegetables and non-plastic-y chicken did sound good.
He started to get up.
"I'll get it," she said, pushing him gently back into his seat. "Just tell me what you want."
She needed to do something; it was obvious. They hadn't seen her for several weeks before they'd been arrested and she hadn't exactly been the mothering type at any point along the way. This situation was throwing her into a role she wasn't comfortable with, but she was trying. When he asked for a salad, she smiled and seemed relieved.
He watched her work, a little tension easing as he marveled at the fact his mother was preparing him a salad. Despite the bumps in the road along the way, it was still mind-blowing that she was alive. It was amazing that he was getting to know her - however minimally; and that she cared enough to stick around - however infrequently.
"How are you holding up after…" her voice trailed off as she placed the salad and a glass of water in front of him.
She seemed uncomfortable and uncertain and for the billionth time in his life, he wished he'd known her before she'd died. Had she ever been what he'd always imagined her to be? That line of thought was dangerous, though, so he shut it down right away and smiled.
"I'm ok, Mom."
He was. He'd been through so much worse. But he wasn't going to tell her that; not that she would ever ask. It had been a long six weeks, but it was in the past now.
Thirty-six hours in the past, but who was counting?
Despite his reassurance, her eyes were filled with worry as she sat down. Sam had to look away because he still wasn't sure how to handle her concern. He forced himself to eat. It helped. The coffee eased the chill he'd been trying to ignore and the salad did help settle his stomach.
To keep the conversation focused away from him, he asked questions about the hunts she'd been working while they were gone. It helped them both. The avoidance. Sam could tell she wanted to help and that, in her own way, she was trying, but it was also clear she didn't have a clue what to say. It was easier to discuss her cases than it ever would be to discuss the prison.
He was beginning to relax a little by the time he'd finished eating. Even so, he was relieved when her phone rang and he didn't have to try to keep the conversation going any longer. Apologizing, she answered it while taking the dishes over to the sink. Sam stared into his second cup of coffee, half-listening to her conversation, half-wondering where his brother was and if he'd boozed himself into oblivion by now or not.
"Sam?"
His head snapped up at the sound of her voice. She was looking at him with worry in her eyes again, but he ignored it and asked, "What's up?"
"That was Cas. He wanted me to help him with some research on Kelly."
"Sure. What does he need?" Sam ran his hand over his face, trying to shake the lethargy.
"Sam, we've got it." She smiled. "If I need you, I'll come get you. But I've got it. You should go get some more sleep."
Sleep was probably not a bad idea all things considered, but he needed to find his brother first. Dean was still hiding somewhere in the Bunker and he wasn't doing maintenance. It would be easier to deal with Dean if their mom wasn't hovering, though, so he nodded and said, "Just let me know if you need something."
"I will." She started to walk away, then paused and said, "Let me know if you need anything, too. Ok? I'll just be in the library if you need me or want to talk or anything."
Sam nodded and smiled. "Thanks, Mom."
She returned his smile and left the room.
He hated himself for being relieved.
Feeling a little stronger after having eaten, Sam muscled past the fatigue and went searching for his brother. It was more difficult to find him than he'd expected, which meant Dean had been attempting to hide from not just their mother, but from him. The thought might have stung a few years ago, but it didn't now because he understood his brother better than he had in years.
And, because he understood his brother better than he had in years, Sam found Dean despite his attempts to not be found.
The only thing that surprised Sam was the fact his brother wasn't drunk.
"Dean," Sam said, leaning on the doorframe of one of the remote, mostly-empty file rooms they'd done nothing with since they'd moved into the Bunker.
"Hey." Dean looked up from across the room. He crouched back against the wall, brushing his hands off on his jeans. "What's up?"
Sam smiled. Leave it to his brother to act like absolutely nothing had happened earlier. He nodded to the bookshelf Dean apparently was in the process of tearing down and asked, "Remodeling?"
"It was broken." Dean patted the bookshelf, then pushed himself to his feet. "Figured now was as good a time as any to start cleaning up these rooms."
Translation? He needed a project to occupy his mind and this was what he'd found.
Sam wasn't going to argue. He was too relieved that Dean had found a method of coping that didn't involve liver failure. He seemed better. The anger was gone; tension released from his posture. His eyes were clearer, less panicked. He didn't look trapped any more. He looked like he had a purpose. He looked focused.
"Did you need something?" Dean asked, pulling one of the shelves off and setting the piece of wood aside.
"No. Uh...not really."
Sam floundered a bit. He'd come to make sure Dean wasn't face down in a pile of his own vomit. Having found him busy with something productive rather than something alcohol related, Sam was at a loss. It was a good development, but he wasn't sure how to handle it. He watched his brother finish tearing down the ancient bookshelf, wondering what had caused the abrupt change in Dean's methods and demeanor. Dean had been so angry earlier that it was jarring to find him so calm.
Dean paused in his work, his gaze focused as he asked, "How was the run?"
"Good."
"Must've been. You were gone a long time." There was a casual challenge in his tone.
"Not that long."
"Mom back?" Dean started pulling off another shelf.
"Yeah. She's helping Cas with some research." Sam caught a bit of trepidation on Dean's face before he schooled his expression. Sam didn't feel up to trying to determine the reason for it, though. He simply said, "She was worried when she couldn't get ahold of you."
"Didn't bring my phone."
Sam wasn't surprised.
"Hey," Dean interrupted his thoughts.
"What?"
"You wanna go for a drive?"
Frowning at the out of the blue question, Sam asked, "Uh...why?"
"Don't need a reason." Dean shrugged. He stared down at the neat pile of boards he'd lined up against the wall and said, "I'm sorry. About earlier."
"You don't have to be sorry. You were pissed and I get it, ok? I do. You were angry with good reason." Sam caught his brother's gaze and added, "If you need to talk about it, we can. If you want to go for a drive, that's fine, too. Whatever you need, man."
Dean shook his head, then ran his hand through his hair. He took a frustrated breath. "It's not just about what I need."
Sam stiffened. He had no interest in getting this turned around on him again. Because, he was fine. If Dean needed to talk and get this off his chest, Sam would listen. But he had no intention of repeating his mistake from earlier. He wasn't going to start talking. He didn't need to talk. All he had to do was hold it together while Dean worked his way through the mess, and then they could never bring the matter up again.
"You said it didn't feel real."
Sam's breath caught in his throat and he shifted uncomfortably.
Downplay. Evade. Escape.
He shrugged. "I said sometimes it didn't feel real."
"Six weeks I was in there, and never once did it not feel real." Dean's voice was low. Harsh. Pained. "It felt real every single minute of every single day."
The words were like the ice cold rain. Sam's heart was pounding so loud he figured Dean could hear it all the way across the room. This was not going well at all. Selfishly, he had a passing moment of wishing he had found his brother drunk rather than occupied with Flip or Flop: Bunker-Style. He did not want to be having this conversation, but apparently Dean had sobered up just so he could give a lecture.
Trying to diffuse the situation before they wound up in another shouting match, Sam said, "Look, what I said earlier, it was stupid, ok? I was tired and not thinking straight. I was just trying to let you know you weren't alone-"
"I was alone and so were you," Dean interrupted, stepping closer.
"I know that. Why do you have to keep making such a big deal out of this?" Sam shoved his hands in his pockets when they started shaking. "We're not there anymore."
"No. We're not. Doesn't mean I can just forget what happened."
Sam nodded, staring at the far wall.
"And it doesn't mean I'm gonna forget what you said."
"Seriously?" Sam gritted his teeth. He's like a dog with a damned bone. "I'm sorry I ever said anything. I was getting sick of you yelling at me. It's not a big deal."
"Yes, it is."
"Why?"
"Because the last time you said things didn't feel real, you were hallucinating."
Sam went even colder, but shook his head. "I'm not hallucinating. Is that what you're worrying about? That I'm losing my mind again? That you can't trust me?"
"No," Dean said, and he sounded like he was being honest.
"Then what is it?"
"I'm worrying about you."
"You don't need to. I'm fine."
"Are you?"
"Yes!" Sam hated the blatant concern in his brother's eyes. "I'm fine. Don't project onto me if you're still having issues!"
"Of course, I'm still having issues," Dean said, but he wasn't yelling. If anything, his tone was softer, gentler. "And you are, too."
"The only issue I have right now is you." Maybe it had been more harsh than he'd intended, but Sam didn't care. He said, "Whatever you think is going on, you're wrong. I'm fine. I am fine. I'm not losing my mind or about to have a nervous breakdown."
Dean started to say something, but Sam didn't give him the chance.
"It sucked, yeah, and I'm sorry it's still bothering you, but it's over. We're out."
"Sam."
"Go for a drive if you want to." Sam looked at Dean and hoped his eyes weren't revealing as much of what he was feeling as his brother's were. "I'm going to go help Mom."
Dean didn't respond or try to stop him.
Sam didn't go help their mom.
He went to his room, closed the door, and tried not to have a nervous breakdown.
"I'm fine," he said aloud for what must have been the tenth time.
He was fine and it annoyed him that he was having to spend so much time verifying it to everyone; including himself.
He'd been fine as they escaped the prison. Focused as they'd fought through the woods. But now things were completely out of control and he didn't know how to put any of it back together. If he'd just kept his mouth shut. If he hadn't been a complete idiot and said what he'd said, Dean would've gotten his anger and frustration out and then they could have moved on and forgotten the entire mess.
He'd handled everything wrong, though, and instead of making his brother feel better, all he'd done was fire up his overactive imagination. Now Dean was making up scenarios in his head and ignoring the very obvious truth of the matter. Sam was, in fact, fine. Other than an ever-increasing headache, he was fine.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and pressed shaky fingers against his throbbing head. Going for any painkillers seemed like too much trouble and he wasn't in the mood to run into Dean or his mother, so he resigned himself to suffering through the headache.
After a few minutes, he flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling fan in the dim light shining from under the door. He tried to think about anything but his conversation with his brother and failed spectacularly. No matter how he attempted to clear his mind, he failed. The more he thought about their conversation, the more his heartbeat seemed to stutter in his chest.
Because thinking about the conversation led to thinking about the prison which led to thinking about a lot of other stuff he was very eager never to think about again.
He tossed and turned, fighting off memories and nightmares of cages and basements and prisons. The remembered horror of thinking he would never see his brother again gripped him until his lungs struggled to draw in air and he sat up, gasping.
It was so stupid, this kind of reaction. So stupid and unnecessary. They were both fine. They hadn't been hurt - not physically anyway.
They were alive and so was their mom and so was Cas and Lucifer was out of the president and locked up again and really everything had turned out pretty damn great so why was he sweating and why was his heart pounding and why was he squeezing his left hand?
Sam sucked in a shocked breath when he realized what he had been doing. A familiar chill ran down his spine as he tore his hands apart. It was idiotic. Idiotic and nothing more than a sign of his stress and distraction. It didn't mean anything. It didn't mean anything.
Fumbling for the switch, he turned on the lamp, then tried to bring the clock into focus. Maybe he should go help his mom with some research. Maybe sitting alone in the near dark wasn't the best idea after all. Maybe…
He shook his head, shocked as he stared at the clock. It didn't seem possible.
Four-thirty in the morning?
"No," he said aloud in the too quiet room.
It couldn't be. Couldn't be possible. It had been late afternoon. It had just been late afternoon when he'd walked into his room. He'd only been tossing and turning for a short time, definitely not for the entire night. It wasn't possible.
Was it?
A tendril of paranoia wrapped around his throat, making it difficult to breathe. He shook his head, running his hands through his hair and forcing himself to think logically. He was distracted. That was all it was. His thoughts had been running in circles and he hadn't even realized how much time had been passing. It made sense.
He wasn't losing his mind. It wasn't happening again. He wasn't slipping back to easier habits. This was nothing like it had been in the prison. This was just exhaustion plain and simple. In the prison, sure, he'd shut down a time or two. More than that, his traitorous mind whispered. This, though? This was different.
And so what if he had blocked it all out sometimes? What was so wrong with that anyway? Why did his brother insist on making a mountain out of a molehill? What Dean really needed to be doing was dealing with his own problems.
Sam had known that Dean would have a difficult time sitting in that prison. Every day, he'd worried. Dean had never in his entire life done well being still.
With being helpless.
Dad had said he'd been a squirmy kid; never sitting still, always running at one-hundred and ten percent. Hunting had helped give his boundless energy some focus; for better or for worse. Sam had known it growing up, had witnessed it their entire adult lives. Dean needed to be able to do something.
Anything.
He needed to be active and he needed his mind stimulated and he needed to have a purpose. Being helpless and locked in a small cell with no outside contact was the exact opposite of what he needed. Dean could fight back against anything or anyone, but he couldn't fight back against isolation.
It might not have made sense to anyone else, but Sam had completely understood when Dean had said the prison had been worse than hell. At least in hell Dean had been able to fight back. He'd had an enemy he could mouth off to. Could fight against with everything he had in him. In the prison, the only thing either of them had been able to fight was their own minds.
Sam locked his hands behind his neck and lowered his head.
Isolation had been a mixed blessing for him. On one hand, it hadn't been so bad. No one had tortured him, beat him up, or pumped him full of drugs and messed with his mind. What more could he have hoped for?
On the other hand, it had been torture. Not knowing how Dean was doing. Not knowing if they were going to live out the rest of their lives separated by a wall, never knowing if the other was even still alive. It had had also afforded his mind an opportunity to mess with itself - to slip into a place it hadn't gone in a long time. A place where it was easier to shut down than to deal with anything. It had been a relief, really.
Dean had been angry and helpless and Sam had thought he was doing the right thing by showing his brother how calm he was; how unaffected he was. Thought he'd said the right things. Had tried to reassure his brother that he'd held up ok in the prison. Which he had. Sure, it had taken a little loosening on his grip of reality at times which really didn't seem any worse than punching walls and yelling.
But Dean hadn't been reassured and Sam didn't know where to go from here.
Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet and decided he might as well start his day. Sitting around moping and doubting himself wasn't getting him anywhere. He was still dressed; hadn't even taken his running shoes off yesterday.
He slipped out into the hall and held his breath but didn't hear any movement from anywhere in the Bunker. With any luck Dean and their mom were still sound asleep. Even so, he walked as quietly as possible to the kitchen.
It was deserted, so he made a pot of coffee and poured a bowl of cereal. Going for a run, an actual run, would be the perfect way to shake himself out of...whatever this was. Maybe after a good night's sleep, Dean would be feeling back to normal.
Yeah, right.
He finished the cereal, then concentrated on his coffee, longing for the moment it would wake him fully.
It didn't, though, and he found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. It was only quarter to five. He still had probably thirty minutes until his mom would be up and maybe an hour before Dean. Sam decided he could relax for a couple minutes and still make it out for a run before they woke up.
So he rested his head on his arms and closed his eyes.
Sam heard voices at some point, but the overpowering lethargy convinced him he didn't really care. Didn't care who the voices belonged to. Didn't care what they were saying.
Didn't care whether they were real or not.
The voices drifted away, or maybe he did. Either way, it was blessedly silent for an indeterminable amount of time.
Sometime later, he sensed movement nearby. It didn't feel threatening, so he didn't bother reaching for the weapon he didn't even have on him. Slowly, things began to filter into his sluggish mind.
He smelled coffee. Heard the fridge door opening and closing quietly. The table shifted as someone sat down. He could picture his brother sitting there in that ugly dead-guy robe of his.
"Good dream?"
"Hmm?" Sam wasn't invested enough to move or attempt to speak actual words.
"You're smiling," Dean said, his voice soft. Amused. It sounded like he was turning the pages of a newspaper.
Sam forced his eyes open. His head was still pillowed against his arms and he was staring at the wall. Looking around as far as he could without actually lifting his head, he caught sight of his brother, sitting with his back to the wall, newspaper in front of him, coffee cup in hand. Wearing that ugly dead-guy robe of his, as expected.
Dean smirked when he caught him looking.
"Not sure if you got the memo," he said, folding up the newspaper, "but you do have a bed in your room."
Sam didn't bother to say been there, tried that. Instead, he pushed himself upright, rested his elbows on the table, and pressed his hands to his face.
"Coffee?"
Nodding, Sam stared at the table while his brother got up and poured the coffee. He straightened when the cup was placed in front of him and Dean took a seat again.
"You're up early," Sam said, once he'd finished half of his coffee.
"Good morning to you, too. And it's not that early, dude."
Sam frowned, squinting at his watch.
It was almost eight.
"What time'd you get up?" Dean asked, resting his elbows on the table.
"Uh. Earlier." A lot earlier.
"I figured that, genius." Dean snorted and said, "We found you here around six-thirty. Did you sleep at all last night?"
"I don't know," Sam heard himself say, even though he'd meant to say yes. He shrugged and forced a yes past numb lips.
"Yeah, I'm gonna go with an absolute no."
Ignoring the comment, Sam closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened his eyes again, he was surprised to see his brother standing at the end of the table, arms crossed. He didn't look happy at all. Sam realized he could smell eggs and bacon.
He looked beyond his brother and asked, "When did you make breakfast?"
"Just now after you decided to space out on me for the last ten minutes," Dean said, his frown deepening. His voice sounded too loud in the quiet room.
"I didn't…" Sam couldn't finish the statement.
It had only seemed like a few seconds, but a glance at the clock revealed his brother was telling the truth. No wonder Dean was frowning. Sam looked at the table, then around the kitchen. They were safely sitting in the Bunker but it didn't seem right somehow. The room looked dull and far away. He shook his head, trying to dispel the fog.
"Alrighty," Dean said, pointing to the door. "Nice chat. Go to bed."
"I'm not going back to bed now."
"Yeah. You are." Dean went to the stove as the bacon started sizzling. After turning the burner down a bit, he leaned back against the counter and said, "You obviously didn't sleep last night and your little nap on the table earlier wasn't enough. You can't even keep your eyes open."
"More coffee would solve that problem." Sam smiled, straightening and trying to look awake. Dean didn't smile, just shook his head so Sam switched tactics and said, "We should check up on Cas."
"He called earlier. He's following his own leads right now."
There was an angry undercurrent to the words that made Sam pause. He hadn't thought much about how quickly Cas had left the Bunker, but looking at his brother right now, maybe he should have. It was probably a terrible time to prod Dean for answers and Sam knew he should leave it alone.
He opened his mouth anyway. "Cas didn't hang around long after we got back. Took off before I even got out of the shower. Did something happen?"
"No." The anger seemed closer to the surface this time, but Dean was apparently done with the subject. Without another word, he turned back to the stove to deal with the bacon and eggs. "You want something to eat before you go back to bed or you want me to save it?"
"I already ate," he said, looking for the bowl he'd used for cereal.
He barely remembered eating earlier. It was like it had happened a lifetime ago. The bowl was gone which meant Dean must have washed it at some point.
"If you're not gonna eat, go back to bed," Dean said as he sat down with a plate laden with eggs and bacon.
"I won't be able to sleep."
Dean smirked as he stabbed his fork into a pile of eggs and said, "If I stop talking to you, you'll fall asleep right there."
It really was a strong possibility, Sam had to admit. The fatigue pressing down on him was unrelenting. He kept telling himself to get up and leave, but his brain didn't seem to be connected to his body anymore.
Dean was apparently intent on proving his point, too, because he'd stopped talking. He just sat there watching with eagle eyes waiting, no doubt, for the moment Sam would fall asleep.
"Where's Mom?" Sam rubbed his eyes and tried to focus. "Maybe we should try to -"
"Mom's fine. She caught a case and she doesn't need us."
There were many ways to interpret that statement, but Sam chose to take it at face value right now. He asked, "When did she leave?"
"About an hour ago. I don't think she knew what to do here." Dean ran a hand through his hair; he looked conflicted. "I mean, I don't even blame her this time. I don't know what to do."
"About what?" Sam asked, only half-awake and even less interested in speaking.
"About us."
"What about us?"
Dean sighed but he seemed more unsure than annoyed. He stared down at his coffee for a few seconds, one finger aimlessly tapping a beat on the side of the cup. Then he looked up and said, "I think we need to talk about what happened."
"We have talked about it." Sam was tired of rehashing the same conversation but too tired to walk away from the table.
"Have we? How I remember it, I got drunk and did a lot of yelling. You said some stuff-"
"I said I was fine."
Dean's half-smile was weary. He shook his head and said, "Neither of us is fine."
Sam frowned; it wasn't exactly like his brother to admit stuff like that.
"Hear me out." Dean held up a hand to stave off the argument Sam hadn't even been able to formulate yet.
"I'm listening."
"Ok." Dean took a deep breath. "This isn't about me thinking you're crazy or not trusting you to have my back. But I know you, Sam. And you're not as fine as you're telling yourself you are."
Sam set his coffee cup down a little harder than he'd intended. "Dean-"
"I was there, Sam," Dean interrupted. "For six weeks I was losing my mind. I didn't know what was happening to you and there wasn't anything I could do about any of it.. I'm...I just want to put it behind me and forget it ever happened but I can't. I don't think you can either. No matter how much we both want to I just...I'm not sure how to deal with it."
Sam nodded, his defensive fight or flight instinct quashed by the raw vulnerability in his brother's tone.
"I was climbing the walls."
"So that's what that noise was." Sam's teasing seemed weak to his own ears, but Dean smiled.
His smile faded quickly, though, and he looked troubled. Dean took a sip of coffee, then said, "I slept a lot. Or tried to anyway. I mean, I wasn't napping for the beauty rest. It was the only way I could get a break from it. I couldn't stop thinking. About you. About Cas and Kelly and Mom and what was happening out here."
"I knew it was hard for you. To be cooped up like that with nothing to do."
Dean nodded slowly, his jaw tight. His hands were fisted against the table and there was a tension in his posture that hadn't been there a minute ago. After a few seconds, he visibly forced himself to relax, unclenching his fists and shrugging his shoulders.
"I could've dealt with the rest of it. I mean, I dealt with hell. Or, maybe didn't." Dean smirked, but there was no humor behind it. "At least then I knew...well, at least I thought, you were ok. But knowing you were in there, too… I mean, a concrete wall was the only thing between us...but we might as well have been on different planets. Boredom would've driven me insane in another month or two, but not knowing what was happening to you? That was the one damn thing I couldn't handle."
Sam nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"That guy was right," Dean said softly. "Back there. He told me I'd go crazy just sitting there alone. That I'd need to talk and I'd tell him whatever he wanted to know."
"He said the same thing to me."
You'll get so crazy to talk, to see someone real… The words had shaken him at the time and still left him with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"It was psychological warfare, man," Dean said, staring into his cup. "And it worked."
"No, it didn't-"
"It did. It worked. Sure, we didn't blab out all the stuff they wanted to know, but we made a deal with a Reaper to get out. I couldn't take another minute in there, Sam." There was undisguised desperation in his tone. "I would've...I don't know. I really don't know."
The discussion was taking a toll on both of them. Dean looked wrung out and in pain. He ran a hand through his hair, then pushed himself up from the table. Sam watched, heart in his throat, trying to think of the right thing to say. He was afraid his brother was going to disappear from the room, but he merely went for the pot of coffee. It was empty.
Holding the pot up, his back to Sam, Dean asked, "You want more?"
He didn't, but said he did just so Dean would have something to do. They were silent as the coffee brewed. Once Dean had poured them both a fresh cup, he sat back down, but the silence continued.
Sam wrapped his hands around the coffee cup, telling himself that he could feel the heat beneath his fingers.
"I kept thinking I was going to die in there," Dean said, staring blankly at the table. "The dying wouldn't have been so bad, I guess. At least it would've been a way out. But I couldn't...I couldn't stand the thought of facing that without knowing what happened to you. If you were even still alive or if you'd ever get out or...or if you'd already died." Dean finally looked at Sam, holding his gaze through the steam rising from his cup of coffee. "Another few weeks and who knows? They might have started telling us stuff like that just to see what we'd do."
"They might have," Sam agreed. He'd considered the same haunting possibility. "But they didn't and it doesn't matter what might have happened. We got out and that's the important thing."
Dean nodded, but didn't look any less troubled. After a minute, he asked, "How bad did it get?"
Sam rubbed his free hand on his jeans; palms suddenly sweaty. A part of him still wanted to walk away. To bury everything, move on, and never bother to deal with any of it. The entire conversation was pressing down on him until each breath he drew was more difficult than the last. Maybe his brother was right, though. Maybe they did need to talk it through. Obviously Dean was struggling to deal with what had happened.
And so was he.
Sam stared at a few scattered droplets of spilled coffee on the table, suddenly so tired it hurt.
"Sammy?"
Glancing up, he met Dean's concerned gaze. He wanted to help and Sam wanted to let him. Something deep inside his chest relaxed a little, but he was still jittery and unsure. He swallowed hard, then asked, "Do you think it's going to make you feel better if you know?"
"Probably not." Dean's smile was brief. He leaned forward and said, "Tell me anyway."
His defenses fell like a house of cards at the open encouragement and he said, "The walls started closing in pretty quickly."
"Yeah, they did." Dean huffed. He shifted, squaring his shoulders like maybe the walls were closing in on him right now.
"The food sucked, the bed sucked, it was always cold," Sam listed off, trying not to shiver at the remembered chill. "I knew you were going crazy and there wasn't anything I could do to help you."
Dean nodded, taking a deep breath. He looked torn between anger and defeat and Sam knew the helplessness of being trapped was still weighing on him.
"I thought we were going to die in there and…" Sam left the statement unfinished and took a sip of coffee that he couldn't even taste.
"And?" Dean prompted gently.
"I couldn't... I was afraid..." He shook his head, struggling to find the right words. "I didn't want to die alone."
It sounded pathetic and weak, but it was the truth. As often as he'd been unfortunate enough to experience death, he'd always had his brother at his side and his presence had been comforting. The thought of dying completely alone without Dean even knowing he'd died terrified him. Sure, it had happened when Billie had reaped them, but they'd both agreed to that and had both known what to expect.
Talking with the Reaper had been the first contact - however indirect - that he'd had with his brother in six weeks. He'd been more than willing to let her take him in the end as long as Dean was free. At least they could have been together when it happened instead of being separated by a concrete wall.
"I didn't want to die alone, either," Dean's quiet voice drew him back to the present.
Sam nodded, looking back at the coffee spill on the table.
After a moment, Dean broke the silence. When he spoke, it was obvious he was choosing his words carefully. "You said sometimes it didn't feel real. How bad did it get?"
"It was getting more difficult at the end," Sam admitted, his throat tight.
The confession had been simple, but he was sick with knowledge of everything the confession hadn't revealed. Sick with the memory of exactly how difficult it had been to keep things straight. Of how quickly he had begun to doubt reality. How much he'd wanted to doubt reality.
Dean didn't say anything.
"I knew, ok?" Sam was suddenly determined to make him understand. "I knew what was real even if it didn't always feel real. But the longer we were there...the more I just didn't care. I let myself lose focus. It was easier to shut it out."
There was no judgment reflected in Dean's eyes. Only understanding. Sam's stomach flip-flopped uncomfortably anyway.
"I wasn't like when I was hallucinating. I never...I never saw anything, it just...sometimes, yeah, it reminded me of…" Lucifer and the Cage and Toni and that basement and losing you and cold and fear and pain, "stuff."
Heart pounding, he held his breath, waiting for Dean's response.
Dean didn't say anything, though. At least not aloud. But the turmoil in his eyes spoke volumes.
"What do we do now?" Sam asked, needing an answer, a solution...something.
Dean studied him for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't know, Sam. I honestly don't know."
The admission left Sam struggling to remember how to breathe.
tbc...
Well, at least they've got it all out on the table finally. Maybe they can start to make some progress from here? :) stay tuned for chapter three to find out!
thank you for reading! hope you have a great Thursday!
