Author's Note: I suppose I really should have said this before Chapter 1, but it slipped my mind. This is definitely going to turn completely AU after Friday; it wasn't intended as such, but the story's pretty much written and I don't see myself meddling with it unless something really drastic happens on the show. I hope that won't hamper anybody's enjoyment.
Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.
Thanks to Bad Wolf 42, Cainchan, lotchness, PeppyPower, jensengirl4eva, shimmerinstars, T.L. Arens, J-Bird2006, Klutzygirl33, QuierdoMusic, cold kagome, supernaturaldh and SciFi Girl for reviewing Chapter 1!
Chapter 2: In Health and in Sickness
How mad did I make him?
Damn it. Damn it. DAMN IT.
Thank GOD it's safe, but damn it, Sammy, I am going to KILL you as soon as you're better. How could you not give it back to me?
How could he not give it back to me?
I turn to sneak a glance at Sam, now huddled in his hoodie, dead to the world and totally not looking as though I just discovered something in his bag that has absolutely no business being there.
But I'm not going to be calling Sam on it, because – well, like with so much in our royally messed-up lives that needs discussion, what do I say? I was the one who threw the amulet away, and I did it with the single-point agenda of getting back at Sam for daring to have happy moments that didn't involve me.
Which brings me to the question of how the hell it got into Sam's bag to begin with. He must have picked it up right after I threw it out, but Sam's been around a bit since then. So he either had it on him when he went into Lucifer's cage – and I manage to suppress the litany of no no no no no that starts in my head whenever I think of Sam in the cage – or he'd left it somewhere safe and he went and got it after he came out.
And that makes me love the kid even more but it also scares me.
If Sam dived for the amulet after I chucked it, and if he's carried it around ever since... well, then he's still my Sammy, no matter how much he pretends that he's not. But the fact that he had it and he didn't give it to me – when I came back from Hell he gave it to me right away, the kid knows how much it means to me – that says he's mad. Not mad like me or mad like Dad, but full-on Sam Winchester mad.
Sam doesn't usually bear grudges. That's more my thing. It takes a lot to make Sam bear a grudge, but once he starts you can bet he'll be holding onto it for a very long time. Like when he left for Stanford and Dad told him never to come back – I mean, yeah, I was there, it was a bad fight, and Dad said a lot of things he shouldn't have. I was mad at him, too. But it has to be said for the man that he tried to apologize. Sam wouldn't speak to him, wouldn't pick up the phone; there are times when I think he's still not forgiven Dad for that.
So when I told Sam that if he left with Ruby he should never come back, I knew exactly what I was doing. I was risking making Sam very, very angry in the hope that it would stop him from doing something very, very stupid.
Well, we all know how that turned out.
Anyway, I was wondering if he would be upset, later, because he knew and I knew that I'd been echoing Dad, but he wasn't – he was going out of his way to do what I wanted, taking whatever crap I threw at him, willing to do just about anything to get me to trust him again.
Maybe that was partly because he blamed himself for the Apocalypse, but even more than that it was because Dad was Dad but I'm Dean, and when it comes to Sammy I've always been able to go a lot further and get away with it. Since I got away with that, I was sure I'd get away with anything.
But the amulet dangling from my fingers tells me mockingly that I won't.
I stare at it, wondering just when I went too far. The year leading up to Stull Cemetery was anything but pleasant, and I know I hurt Sam, but I never thought it was enough for him to...
I'm considering keeping the amulet, just tucking it into my pocket and refusing to give it back, but that would kind of defeat the purpose. When Sam gave it to me, it wasn't because he was mad at Dad. It was because he was grateful to me. It was I love you and You're the best big brother and Thank you for being there, Dean.
I don't know which of those sentiments Sam would take back now, but I have a terrifying feeling that it might be all three.
Not all three.
I cast a sudden, desperate glance at Sam, still asleep, and I tell myself that there is something left. I might not be the best big brother anymore – I might not even be a passable big brother anymore – and there were times when I wasn't there for him, but Sam still – he has to –
Damn it.
He does. He does. He came to me in the end, didn't he? He stayed away for a year, but he came to me in the end. And a year doesn't mean a damn thing. When I went to get Sam at Stanford I hadn't spoken to him for a lot longer than that.
But... Well. Sam never has a problem saying these things.
I would die for you. You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. You're still my brother and I love you.
Yeah, I can always count on Sam to come up with girly lines and chick-flick moments just when I need them the least. So if he's not giving me any – if he's not –
But he came back to me. I cling to that thought frantically, like it's my only lifeline. Sam came back to me.
To save me because a monster was after me, and he'd do as much for any stranger he met. Sam coming back to me doesn't mean a damn thing, not when he waited months to do it. Sam keeping the amulet does mean something, but so does his not giving it to me. It was – it isn't –
I drop the amulet back in Sam's bag. My arms are as heavy as lead. I can't move. No matter how firmly I tell myself that the way Sam leaned into my hug when he came back was more than just duty, the fact remains that we're not allright. Sam's not all right.
And now I don't know whether to laugh at how much I sound like Sam or cry about how little Sam sounds like himself.
I go back to Sam. He hasn't gotten any worse, which is a good sign. His fever hasn't come down, but at least it's not gone up, either. Which, when I think about it, is a pretty good metaphor for the state of our relationship. Not wrecked to hell, not as good as it used to be, just... there.
I'm not quite sure just when my eyes close.
The next thing I know, I'm feeling very stiff. My body is reminding me painfully that I'm going to be thirty-three in a couple of months. It takes me a moment to realize why: I'm twisted awkwardly, half-sitting and half-lying on Sam's bed, one arm bent under me and the other hand brushing the floor.
Sam's still asleep – really asleep; I can hear his even breathing – and I heave myself off the bed before he wakes up and things get uncomfortable.
He's much better now. His forehead is cool under my hand and he's resting easily. I decide to let him get a little more sleep, because God knows the poor kid needs it, while I go grab us some breakfast.
By the time I'm back with bagels and coffee and a vanilla latte for Sam, he's awake and fiddling with something on his laptop. He takes the paper bag with a smile of thanks, dimples making him look about ten years younger than he is.
"I found us something."
Sam turns the laptop to face me. All I see is a map of North America superimposed with a freakish number of red and black lines. I can't make sense of it. Dad couldn't have made sense of it. I would have sworn there was no way Sam could become more of a geek than he was already, but in the year we've been apart he seems to have achieved that. I mean, he's started playing chess against the computer. And winning!
"Well?" Sam demands, and I realize he's waiting for an answer.
"Well what, Sam? I don't get his."
"Werewolf attacks." Sam presses a few buttons, and the lines on the map resolve into banded curves like a topographic chart. "By frequency." He presses some more buttons, and the curves shift. "By how long ago they happened." Then he hits a key and the incomprehensible red and black mess comes back. "This is the two of them superimposed on each other."
"And this tells us what?"
"Look here." He points somewhere in the region of New England. "And here. And here... You see what's happening, Dean?"
"No, and if you could tell me sometime today it'd be nice."
Sam rolls his eyes. "They've been spreading in waves. This is the earliest known incident."
I squint. "That's miles inland."
"Yeah, I don't think werewolves came over on the Mayflower, Dean."
"But there were werewolves in Europe for centuries before Columbus!"
"So what?" Sam shrugs. "Whatever happened to create the first werewolf in Europe, it's possible that the same thing happened to make one here. Independently."
"I thought you can only become a werewolf by... you know... being bitten."
"I thought so, too, but there has to have been a first time. Maybe a curse, a hunter who got torn apart by wolves and turned into a vengeful spirit... I don't know."
"So you want to go there and check it out?"
Sam's only answer is to nod.
Three hours later we're on the road again. This is as close as life ever gets to perfect now: the Impala, Sam and our next job. I feel a momentary pang for Lisa and Ben – they really deserved better than to have me drop everything to chase after Sammy. But maybe this is best for everyone. What I'm doing is making the world a little bit safer for them, and Sam's dozing next to me. I can't ask for anything else.
Actually, I can ask for Sam to stop being so infuriatingly practical and freaking talk to me about something other than hunting. And I can ask for my amulet back, thank you very much, Sammy. (Except that Sam, pre-law straight-A nerd that he is, will probably tell me that throwing it away constituted abandonment of property or something like that. Besides, how do I raise the subject when Sam refuses to discuss anything that happened before he came back from Lucifer's cage?)
As always, the thought of Sam in Hell makes me flinch.
Sam shoots me a sideways glance. I guess he wasn't asleep after all.
"You OK?"
"I'm fine, Sam."
"You don't look fine, Dean."
This from the man who returned from Hell, from being tortured by freaking Lucifer, from a life that before he went to Hell was pretty much five years of one miserable catastrophe after another, and told me he didn't need to talk about anything.
"I'm fine," I growl.
"Maybe I should drive for a while."
"I can drive."
"You look like you're about to fall asleep. I'd rather not end up in a ditch."
"Yeah, well, I was up half the night looking after you, princess."
Not so long ago, Sam would have looked guilty at that. Now he just shrugs. "I told you to get some sleep. Just let me drive, Dean. You can nap in the back."
"I can nap in the front," I snap as I pull over.
Sam shrugs again. "Suit yourself."
But... well, trust Sam to be right.
When I wake up two hours later, my first thought is that I should have napped in the back, because if I'd napped in the back I wouldn't be discovering that I somehow managed to curl up on the seat and settle my head in Sam's lap. For a moment I teeter on the edge of getting up, but it feels so right to have Sam's hand resting lightly on my shoulder, so warm and comfortable and safe, and when the darkness beckons I don't fight it.
The next time I wake up I'm in a bed. I don't really remember how I got there, although if I concentrate really hard I have vague recollections of gentle hands and Sammy and It's OK, Dean, just sleep it off.
That's when I realize I feel horrible. It's too hot and it's too cold and my hair is damp with sweat. I shiver, wanting to open my eyes but not daring to, because after a lifetime of having Sammy sit with me through every sickness, I don't want to see the cocky new Sam who's taken his place.
And then it strikes me that Sam's not there, not checking my temperature or fiddling with my blankets or doing any of the things he normally would as soon as he realized I was awake.
He couldn't have left to hit the drugstore, because I made sure we were stocked up.
The thought that follows is inevitable and it rips a hole in my gut. I force myself to open my eyes and face the room – the empty room. No Sam in the next bed, no Sam crouched over his laptop at the tiny coffee table, no Sam hunched over the first aid kit reading the fine print on the bottles.
No Sam.
It makes me feel even sicker. I try to push myself up, because it looks like I'll have to fetch my own Tylenol, but after a few seconds' straining I give up and let myself collapse onto the bed again.
That's when my hand brushes something, something that moves under my fingers, and when I crane my neck to look I see Sam sprawled on the floor by my bed, his head resting on the mattress a few inches from my hand. His eyelids are fluttering; he blinks at me drowsily for a minute before he says, "Dean? How're you feeling?"
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