Chapter One
And Dean regains his balance, pushes himself off the wall, and staggers into the bedroom, collapsing face first onto the bed. Sam shakes his head, choosing not to say anything as his brother falls into a deep slumber. It doesn't take long, and Dean is snoring, lost to the world. The smile that crosses Sam's features is a gentle one, as he crosses the room to the bed and pulls Dean's shoes off, before grabbing a blanket and laying it over his brother, pulling it up and around Dean's shoulders.. It's the little things that Sam does for Dean. Sam knows that Dean will do anything for him, but what Dean doesn't see is the little things that Sam does for him. At least not until after the fact.
Sam doesn't crawl in his own bed. Instead, he goes back downstairs to Bobby, who's flipping through a few ancient books.
"Something's wrong," he says, his tone concerned.
"Ya think?" Bobby says, his tone as open and harsh as possible. Sam flinches. He's been so focused on his own problems and keeping them bottled up that he failed to notice something was wrong with Dean. He hangs his head.
"I should've known earlier." He says, ashamed of himself. His self-centeredness.
"Didn't say that," Bobby says gruffly, and Sam looks up to see the caring and concern in Bobby's eyes.
"Your brother's been fighting his demons for a long time. It's only just gotten worse. I almost didn't believe it myself."
Sam nods, still wrapped up in the fact that he feels like a terrible brother and a terrible friend for not noticing. But Bobby leaves no room for self-pity.
"Sam, why'd you come here anyways?" He asks. Abrupt as always.
"What do you mean?" Sam asks. Bobby gives him that look. That all-knowing one.
"I haven't seen you guys, heard from you guys in months. Not that I'm complaining, but you show up on my doorstep unannounced. What's going on Sam?" Bobby asks. He may be getting up there in years, but he's not stupid. He knows when something's going on. He's known the boys for so long. Sam shakes his head, holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
"Honestly Bobby, I don't know. Dean said we should come see you, stay with you for a while." His voice is cautious. He doesn't know if he's said too much or not. Bobby nods and the movement is somewhat dismissive.
"How long are you planning on staying?"
Sam shrugs helplessly. Bobby sighs, rolls his eyes.
"Never mind, I'll ask Dean tomorrow morning. Idjit," Bobby mutters under his breath. The familiar, father-like tone of voice made Sam smile.
"Sam, go to sleep, I'm sure you had a long drive. We'll talk more tomorrow,"
Sam nods, and trudges up the stairs once more, lingering at Dean's doorway for a moment, remembering when they were kids and they had to share a bed. Dean was always a calming presence. If Sam woke up from a nightmare, or in a cold sweat of terror, Dean always awoke seconds later, soothing, calming Sam. Dean was good at that. Hell, Dean had sold his soul for Sam. And that wasn't anything Sam was forgetting soon.
They've been through a lot. Together. Dean's been his idol. While Dean was off being Daddy's perfect solider, Sam was busy looking up to Dean, trying to model himself after Dean. Of course when he saw how Dean was bending over backwards for John, and Sam knew he couldn't do the same. He wasn't ready to jump when John told him to, he had to leave. Because it killed him to see his brother treated like a little lapdog, not a human, not like John's son. Yes, John was their father. But he never did a GOOD job of being one. That was one of the reasons Sam left. He just couldn't handle it anymore. Seeing Dean like that. The other reason was partially because he wanted out. He had hopes and dreams like any other boy. And hunting demons, werewolves, vampires, that was never part of his dreams. He wanted to be normal.
Sam blinks, shakes himself out of his thoughts, and realizes he's still hovering at Dean's door. It's a bad idea. He's concerned, he wants to know what's going on. But Dean's going to be even less forthcoming if he wakes up to see Sam lurking there. So he goes back to his own room, takes a minute to strip off his jeans, his shirt, and crawl into bed, pulling the covers over his exposed skin. Bobby's right. It's been a long day. And what he needs right now is just to sleep. It doesn't take long and he's dropped into a dream filled slumber.
Dean's the first one up. Which is kind of surprising because he's pretty sure Bobby doesn't really SLEEP anymore. He pushes the blanket back, not remembering crawling under it in the first place, and pauses with a wince. His shoulder hurts a lot more than it should from that fall last night. He pulls himself into a sitting position. And there's another one of the symptoms. He's slow; his body is aching and stiff. But he tries to pretend it's not as he gets out of bed. He feels an ache in the soles of his feet as he rests his full weight on them. Someone took off his shoes, he remembers enough to know that he sure as hell didn't. His walk to the bathroom is slow, a combination of trying to stay quiet, and trying to stop his aching joints from hurting. He undresses slowly, shrugging off his plaid shirt delicately, before inching up his t-shirt. His fingers stumble over his belt when he tries to undo it, fumbles with the button and the fly. He lets them drop to the ground, and steps out of them ever so carefully. Then he looks at his shoulder in the mirror. A large dark bruise is blossoming over his shoulder. Now he knows that the doctors aren't lying. But Sam, Bobby, they can't find out. He can't let them know something is wrong. Not yet at least.
He gets into the shower, the water scalding, pricking at sensitive skin. The heat seeping deep into his joints. His body's already crying out for alcohol. Alcohol numbs the pain that he's feeling. The ache. He knows it would be all too easy to blame his headache and slightly foggy vision on a hangover. But he knows. He knows all the symptoms. He read the brochure, he had listened to the doctor. He didn't expect them to kick in this fast though. He makes quick work of the shower, as carefully and gently as he can, before he shuts the water off, wraps a towel around his waist and pads back to his room, digging through his bag for a change of clothes. He pulls out a black long sleeved shirt and a pair of well worn jeans. He needs to go out and work on the Impala. He may be in pain, but it's the Impala. It's his baby. A few aching joints, a huge bruise, and the promise of eventual death isn't enough to keep him away.
He grabs two beers from the fridge, pauses, grabs a third. Last night it took a full bottle of scotch to stop the pain. And beer is a lot weaker than scotch. So he figures it'll take a lot of alcohol and a lot of determination. He has to appear okay to Bobby and Sam. Especially Sam. His Sammy. He carries the beers in one hand, necks clamped between his fingers as he opens the door, flees to the garage. The Impala is sitting there in her…injured glory, and Dean sets to work. Because it's his baby. And he needs something aside from alcohol and determination to help him focus.
Sam hears when Dean wakes up, goes to shower, goes downstairs. But he doesn't get out of bed. He doesn't let Dean know he's up. He just needs like…twenty minutes to think. Think about what's going on. It hurts him that Dean won't talk to him, though it's always been that way. He knows that Dean always wants to protect him. Protection for Dean, is not only a duty. It's Dean's life. He thinks that if he can keep those around him sheltered from pain, sheltered from the bad, sheltered from evil, that they'll be safe.
After Dean's gone downstairs, there's a few moments of silence, then Sam hears the front door open and close, and for a minute, his heart's in his throat. Is Dean leaving him behind? God, he wouldn't know what to do if that happened. Taking a deep breath, calming himself, he tells himself that Dean would never leave. They're too co-dependant on each other. It borders on unhealthy. But they've spent so many years of their lives together, being their only company and companions. And do be honest, Sam would never find someone more emotionally connected to then Dean. That's just how they work.
Sam lets out a long sigh, turns on his side, and pulls the blanket closer around his chin. It's almost nice, knowing that in fifteen minutes, they're not going to be leaving on a hunt. But it's also disconcerting. He's surprised that Dean's hatred of sitting still hasn't gotten the better of him. Sam drags himself out of bed, casting the blanket aside, and standing up, stretching his arms over his head. The sky is bright, sun streaming in through the blinds, illuminating and warming patches of his skin. He picks up his jeans off the floor, grabs a v-neck t-shirt from his bag, and wanders to the washroom. It's his usual routine, offset by the fact that they're at Bobby's. And he's not about to go anywhere. He showers, puts on fresh clothes, and wanders downstairs, starting the morning routine off by making coffee. He digs through Bobby's fridge, trying to find something easy to make. He settles on making scrambled eggs and bacon. One of the few things that he knows how to cook. He peels off extra strips of bacon. Dean always eats a lot. He turns on the elements, pulls out pans. While everything starts cooking, he pours himself a cup of coffee and waits for Bobby.
When Bobby first enters the kitchen, he doesn't understand why there is bacon and eggs cooking. He has to pause and think about it for a moment.
"Hey Bobby," Sam says, waving at the older man. Bobby jumps, but pretends he didn't. Having the boys around throws him off a bit. He shakes his head.
"Mornin'" he says, pulling open the fridge. His brow wrinkles as he observes the contents, and goes to grab a jug of milk.
"Helped yourself to some beers this morning?" Bobby asks. Sam's flipping bacon, and he pauses to look at Bobby.
"What do you mean?" He asks, a look of confusion settling on his features. Bobby tries to ignore the tug in his gut, and shakes his head.
"Nothing," he says gruffly. Sam doesn't question any further.
"You know, I'm almost done. I think Dean's outside if you want to get him," Sam says. Bobby nods, and walks out the front door. Sam likes the little bit of silence. But it also gives him time, yet again, to wonder what's going on.
Bobby has his suspicions. He knows who took his beer. But he doesn't want to think about it. But it's nine o'clock in the morning for gods sake, and there were THREE beers missing. Three. And that's not something that can be justified. He walks over to the garage. Sure enough, Dean's working on the Impala. Bobby notices something different in the way Dean's moving. More stiffly or slowly perhaps. And if he worked on the Impala cautiously before, he seemed to be working even more carefully now.
"Dean," Bobby's tone is harsh, and Dean's head jerks up, connects with the door of the Impala, and a deep groan is ripped from his lips.
"Fuck, you can't sneak up on me like that Bobby," Dean said, his hand running through his hair, trying to find the sensitive spot. Yeah, there was another bruise forming.
"Sorry, just felt the need to remind you how stupid it is to be drinking this early in the morning," Bobby says, crossing his arms.
"You're an idjit," he follows Dean's guilty gaze to the three, very empty bottles of beer in the corner of the garage.
"You trying to kill yourself? Come inside, Sam's made breakfast," Bobby says. Dean nods, internally thanking the man for not lecturing him. They walk inside in an amicable silence, Dean thinking about food.
The instant he walks inside, that all changes. A wave of nausea rolls through him, and he gags, hand flying to his mouth. But it's bacon and eggs. His favourite food. Bobby and Sam's eyes both fly to him, concerned. But he can't be bothered, he runs to the bathroom, and collapses in front of the toilet, arms on either side as he heaves up bile. There's not much in his stomach except for alcohol. When he finally finishes retching, he catches his breath, and knows he'll pay for the rather epic drop to his knees with two huge bruises. He looks up to see Sam standing in the bathroom doorway, a overly concerned look on his face that reminds Dean a bit of a sad puppy.
"Are you okay Dean?" Sam asks. Dean nods and Sam's face brightens.
"Just a bad hangover." Dean struggles to his feet and grabs his toothbrush. Squirting toothpaste on it, he runs it under the water and brushes his teeth quickly, brushes away the nasty taste.
"Do you still want breakfast or…" Sam asks, the 'or are you feeling too shitty' hanging there in the rift of his words.
"Did you cook any extra bacon," Dean grins. Sam smiles back at him, and everything is normal again.
"Of course I did. I know how much you like to eat."
"Bitch," Dean says, rolling his eyes and punching his brother on the shoulder good-naturedly.
"Jerk," Sam retorts, his grin broad.