Threw Stones At The Stars But The Whole Sky Fell
Chapter 4
A/N: Well, it looks like this story has a mind of its own! I wanted to have wrapped it up by now but expect a good few more chapters outta this one. You guys have all been unbelievable with your response to this, both on fanfic and on LJ, and I want to say, very dorkishly, MERE WORDS ALONE CANNOT POSSIBLY DESCRIBE MY ARDENT LOVE FOR EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU. *flails and dies*
PS- The song that the title comes from, again "The Stable Song" by Gregory Alan Isakov, is at (youtube)(slash)watch?v=l3X9Bz0LNnc
*nudge nudge* It's good. Erm, if you're into angsty folksy acoustic.
Ahem. The story.
Sam seemed okay as they left the hospital, or at least as okay as could be hoped. As they signed the papers, collected the prescriptions, and drove back to the room, he never once lost track of what was happening around him, and it seemed as though he was putting his best effort into keeping it that way. That wasn't to say he didn't have an edgy, jumpy, even paranoid air—he was hunched in on himself, startled by the slightest movements, eyes darting furtively about his surroundings. But he wasn't hyperventilating, or punching anyone in the face, or running away, so Dean counted that as a win.
But wins, of course, were relative.
When they got back to the room, it was around 1 PM. Dean could tell by the longing look that Bobby gave the nearest bed when they walked in what Bobby needed most right now, and that was rest. Which, he realized grimly, wasn't something that all three of them were really all going to be able to get at the same time. Sam looked far too keyed up to even try to sleep, and had they been able to afford two separate rooms, that wouldn't have been a problem—they could've let Bobby crash in one while Dean stayed up with Sam in the other. As it stood, they were looking at having to sleep in shifts so that Sam could be watched (because he hated to admit it, but after what had happened with Bobby, they couldn't risk not being extra careful), despite the fact that they could all slept at the same time given the room's two beds and comfortable, though admittedly stained and odd-smelling, couch. But Dean felt far too drained to try to work out the logistics of all that now, and the prospect of hot coffee sounded almost as alluring as sleep despite the nurses' warnings to avoid consumption of hot liquids (what did they know, anyway), so he figured he'd see how far their remaining 20 bucks would get them and take Sam out for food. It was killing two birds with one stone, really. He could make sure Sam ate, and give Bobby both the rest he needed and the distance from Sam that he probably wanted. It wasn't that Bobby was not willing to forgive him, because he'd already demonstrated that he was—and Dean suspected that his readiness to forgive probably had something to do with Rufus, and the realization that amnesty among hunters, and friends, really was the best policy—but that didn't mean that getting some space wouldn't do him good.
So Dean did his best to clean himself up in the bathroom while Sam waited for him. He dabbed at the flecks of blood that had made it onto his t-shirt, which wasn't much because his outer shirt had gotten the worst of it and he'd taken that off. But, he figured, it was still probably enough to look sketchy in front of civilians. And the sling he'd put on just so the nurses wouldn't give him a hard time on his way out of the hospital actually covered a lot of it, if he positioned it right. And he had to admit, the thing really did help with the pain of having had his arm reset, even if he kind of felt like a wuss wearing it. Then came those damn stickers on his chest where they'd hooked the vitals monitors, which were always a bitch to try to rip off even when he tried to ease them off with hot water, and even tougher one-handed. He was just glad that he wasn't genetically gifted with all that much to speak of in the chest hair department, or else this would be about five times worse than it was. As to the rest of him—a good look in the mirror confirmed what he already knew. He looked like hell. Blood welled black and purple beneath the skin of his eyelids, his nose red and swollen and sensitive to the touch, the rest of his face pale and gaunt. He needed to shave. And damn, since when did he look this old anyway? But there was nothing he could do about any of that. He splashed some cold water on his face with his good hand and swished some in his mouth, and then headed out the door, Sam, who'd been lingering by the door, following anxiously at his heels.
The single, crappy diner in this town was within walking distance, but in the interest of stretching their money as far as it would go for the time being, Dean opted for a large-ish nearby gas station mini-mart thing instead that had a seating area and some very cheap, albeit not entirely appetizing, meal-type food and baked goods for sale, not to mention coffee. They'd driven there, Sam silent the entire ride with eyes determinedly glued to the dashboard, trembling hands clenched into fists by his sides. Dean had anticipated Sam bitching at him for driving them anyplace right now with only one functional arm and still combating the effects of painkillers, but he didn't. It meant that Sam absolutely knew he couldn't handle driving right now, and thus didn't offer, which was worrisome, given that he'd driven alone last night as well as his usual tendency to be a stubborn ass about things like this.
By the time they reached the gas station, Sam was looking lost again. Dean actually had to take his elbow and steered him across the parking lot, into the mini-mart, and into a booth in the seating area before he could start stuttering out questions about where he was. Part of him had wanted to leave Sam in the car while he got the food so he wouldn't have to deal with being in public right now, but he wasn't about to let him out of his sight either. In retrospect, a drive-through might've been smarter for that reason, but he wasn't so sure if Sam could keep down anything in the way of greasy food at the moment, and he'd probably only pick at a salad if Dean got him one.
"Be right back, okay, Sammy?" he said, when he'd gotten Sam seated. Sam nodded vaguely and stared out the store window. Then, keeping one neurotic eye on the seating area while he shopped, Dean set about the task of finding food that was both cheap and palatable. He himself would eat anything—because for the first time in a long time, actually, he really was hungry right now—but for Sam, with a mind that was projecting Hell onto everything he was seeing, it was going to be way tougher to find food he could try to eat without making himself sick. And Dean knew what that was like from personal experience. He scanned the aisles and walked past the hot food area, mind working, trying not to lose his own appetite in the process of putting his mind in Sam's place. Anything meaty was out. Anything red was out. Anything very spicy was out. Anything too salty or too sweet was out. Hell, anything remotely exciting-tasting was out. He ended up settling on two large-ish cinnamon muffins that were inside a cheap baked-goods display. They looked bland but innocuous, and while not exactly as nutritious as Dean would've liked, it was something. He dumped them on the counter and paid, the process of handing over the cash and accepting the change a little slower than it would otherwise be due to an immobilized arm, and he tried to ignore the fact that one of the salesgirls behind the counter, no more than 17 or 18 years old, was openly staring between him and Sam, who was still huddled over their table on the far side of the store.
They probably looked like criminals, or convicts, he figured, but he figured they also looked beat to hell enough that hopefully these people would pity them and lay off.
He slipped the muffins into the paper bag that, while probably unnecessary for dining in, was helpfully offered by the guy behind the counter and allowed him to carry them both back at the same time. He plopped the bag on the table.
"Back," he announced.
Sam looked up at him and managed a wan smile.
He gestured at the bags. "Well, bon appétit," he said. "Not exactly fine dining here, but these don't look half bad."
Sam eyed the bag without much interest. "Thanks," he said dully.
"Well don't get too excited now," Dean drawled.
"S-sorry," Sam muttered, a bit guiltily, but made no move for the bag.
"You okay?" Dean asked after a second.
Sam shrugged and nodded. All in all it didn't look very convincing.
Of course he wasn't okay.
"You want coffee?" Dean tried.
"Yeah." He went back to scrutinizing the sticky spots on the table.
"Okay. Good. Be right back."
The coffee station was actually pretty decent—one of those like you'd find at a Royal Farms or a Wawa or something with a zillion different pots of flavored coffees sitting on hot plates with a bunch of creamers sitting out over ice. He picked a Brazilian or Columbian or something like that that looked and smelled damn wonderful and strong for himself, and as he poured it black he noticed some bored-looking, freckly, curly-haired preteen kid, whose mom he guessed was the blonde lady over buying the Michelobs at the other end of the store, loitering near him. The kid kept eyeing Dean's coffee when he thought Dean wasn't looking. Heh. Little punk probably wanted to swipe some. Not that Dean could blame him, the smell of it was pretty freaking intoxicating. He'd made Sam some, loading it up with creamer and artificial sweetener (that he'd had to tear open with his teeth) and all the crap that Sam actually thought made it taste better, in the hopes that Sam wouldn't notice he was making him decaf, when he noticed a flaw in his plan. He couldn't carry both up to the counter and then to the table at the same time, and Sticky Fingers here was going to swipe the other cup if he could only get one back at a time. Seeing no solution to the problem, he picked up Sam's cup and left his own, fixing Sticky Fingers with a do-it-and-die glare. Sticky Fingers rolled his eyes. But when he turned around to head to the counter, he nearly ran right into Sam.
…Who looked fully alert, and grinned a little sheepishly when Dean started at the sight of him.
"Need a hand?" he asked Dean, looking pointedly but amusedly at Sticky Fingers, who glared daggers back at Sam.
"Uh, yeah," Dean said, holding up Sam's cup. "This is yours, actually."
"Thanks…" Sam looked down at it and raised an eyebrow. "Is it decaf?"
"Nope," Dean said casually. "Just your regular, pansy-assed stuff, dude."
Sam snorted. "It's decaf, isn't it." He paused. "D-don't want decaf." His eyes shuttered briefly as he tried to maintain the clarity of his speech, but he still looked otherwise fine.
For the moment.
Dean frowned. "Tough," he said. "Now are you gonna take it or not? You're not takin' mine and I'm not payin' for two here." He held it up again. It wasn't exactly fair of him to do this, but the last thing Sam needed were stimulants messing with his head in addition to everything else.
Sam didn't take it. "Why'd you lie?" he demanded, pinning Dean with a more than mildly accusatory glare.
Dean shrugged, confused at his reaction. "Uh, 'cause you don't need the caffeine in your system right now…"
Sam's eyes narrowed. "D-don't lie to me."
"Sam, it's just coffee," Dean began, puzzled. "Not a big deal."
Sam looked agitated. "No, I mean—" he cut off, glancing at the boy who was watching them curiously, and then sighed. He took the coffee. "Just come on."
"What?" Dean asked, but Sam was already walking towards the register. Dean grabbed his coffee and followed.
They'd almost made it back to the table without incident—Sam had even been the one to pay for the coffee—but only a few feet away from their seats, Sam stopped abruptly. His body went rigid.
"Sam?" Dean looked at his brother, who was staring, transfixed, at their empty booth. His mouth was hanging open, and he looked like he was barely breathing.
"Huh?" he said softly, as though he couldn't quite comprehend what he was seeing.
"Sam," Dean repeated warily. "What is it?"
The coffee tumbled out of Sam's hand and splattered all over the floor, soaking the legs of his jeans.
Shit...
Come on, not here…
Dean stepped directly in front of Sam, standing in the puddle of coffee at his feet. He resisted the urge to grab Sam's shoulders and shake him to get him to snap out of it, because while would definitely elicit a reaction, it would probably just exacerbate things.
"Sam," he said, firmly. "There's nothing there."
Sam blinked, but didn't look away from the spot.
Dean huffed a sigh and walked over to the table, ignoring Sam's weak, stammered protestation of "D-don't…"
"Look," he said, setting his coffee down then waving his hand in the air over the table and the seats. "There's nothing here, man. I promise. Just you an' me, okay?"
Sam didn't move. "What—"
"Gas station, remember?" He picked up the paper bag with the muffins and brandished it. "Getting food."
It took another long moment, but eventually Sam's shoulders drooped. "Oh… Right." He took a tentative step towards Dean and paused. "Sorry."
"Got nothin' to be sorry for, Sammy. Let's just sit somewhere else, okay?"
"Okay." Sam looked down, and startled when he noticed Sticky Fingers not far away, squatting on the ground with a few napkins in hand, tying to help clean up the coffee. Dean saw him and flashed a grin, but Sticky Fingers just glowered and flushed a little, obviously displeased and embarrassed at having been caught doing something decent. It also meant he couldn't steal the coffee cup—this place had free refills— off the floor without their noticing. Seeming to realize this, Sticky Fingers picked up the cup, lying empty and on its side in the puddle, and held it up to Sam without meeting his eyes. "Here," he said, voice infused with tween contempt, even if it sounded halfhearted.
Sam shook his head. "S'okay," he muttered, with a strained attempt at a smile. "Keep it."
The kid's face brightened. "Whoa, really?" he asked.
Dean nodded, smirking. "Sure, kid. You better go grab some and chug it down before your mom sees."
"Awesome, thanks!" After giving the coffee on the floor one last swipe of his napkin, he snatched up the cup and dashed over to the coffee station faster than Dean would've thought possible.
Dean rolled his eyes after the kid and then turned back toward Sam. "Did you burn yourself?" he asked, pointing at Sam's coffee-soaked pants and shoes.
Sam looked down at himself, surprised, as though he'd only just now noticed he had hot coffee all over him, then shrugged.
"Guess not?" Dean asked.
Sam shook his head. "No."
"Here," Dean said, handing him the food bag. He went back to the table and grabbed his coffee. "But let's grab a new table, yeah? This one's got a crappy view anyway."
Sam nodded, looking subdued, and let Dean lead him to a new booth by the window.
Neither of them said anything for a long while. Sam just stared out the window and didn't touch his food, even when Dean pulled out his own muffin and started eating it and put Sam's in front of him. It was surprisingly pretty damn good, too, and something he thought Sam could totally handle.
When Dean couldn't take the silence anymore, he said, inclining his head towards the kid who was now stirring sugar packet after sugar packet into his cup at the coffee station, "Hope his mom doesn't come over here and kill us for this. The little punk'll be bouncing off the walls for days."
"Mm-hm," Sam said vaguely.
"You want mine?" Dean said after a moment, nudging his cup towards Sam. Couldn't make things any worse than they already were, when he really thought about it. And heck, maybe caffeine wouldn't be such a bad thing if it was mere tiredness that was lowering Sam's defenses against Hell. They wouldn't know 'till they tried, really. "'S okay it's not decaf, I guess. But just know I'll kick your ass if you start bouncin' off the walls." His tone was trying for levity. He couldn't quite manage it.
Sam glanced at the coffee, then back at Dean, looking as though the prospect of drinking it suddenly made him feel nauseous. "No thanks."
"Alright," Dean said, not liking that answer. "More for me, I guess."
Sam's gaze returned to the cup and lingered there. He said nothing for a good few seconds, looking intensely thoughtful. Then, "You lied." His voice was hollow, but the words held all the weight of an accusation.
Dean bit back a surge of disappointment. He was pretty sure Sam's rationality must be trickling away again, because if he was this upset over some stupid cup of coffee… "Yeah, I know, I'm sorry," he said tiredly. "But it's just coffee, dude, it's not a big—"
"No," Sam cut him off. "The girl."
"What?" Dean said. Sam just looked at him, you-know-exactly-what-I'm-talking-about written all over his face.
It took a few seconds for it to finally click in Dean's exhausted brain what it was that Sam was talking about, but when he got it, his stomach dropped. "Sam…"
"The girl with the burns," Sam said slowly, though he could almost certainly tell Dean knew what he was talking about now. "She was real. She w-was real, wasn't she."
Dean sighed, exasperated. "It doesn't matter, Sam."
"It matters," he said, eyes now strangely intense. "Believe me, it m-matters."
"How'd you even know?" Dean asked, knowing he shouldn't be surprised that even in this state, Sam could work out when he was being lied to, and not knowing if that was a good thing. Because before they'd left, when Sam had left to be shown to an ER restroom, Dean had told that damn intern not to mention the girl again…
"Two nurses. Talking…about her, on the way back from the bathroom."
Shit. He didn't know if he should be grateful or not that Sam had been that receptive to his surroundings at the time. He'd certainly done nothing to show it—he'd needed a nurse to walk him there and back because he'd gotten confused and disoriented again—but clearly some part of his brain was still able to track the situation and put two and two together. And that was good.
Even if it meant Sam was looking at him right now as if he'd been betrayed.
Dean felt a headache building somewhere behind his eyes. The pressure made his whole face hurt. "It's not important," he said, his tone belying his dwindling patience. Dwindling, and fast, because as much as he knew that right now Sam more than deserved all the patience and understanding Dean could give him and much more besides, he was so freaking tired he couldn't see straight, without a clue how to begin to fix any of this. And whether Sam agreed or not, he'd done the right thing about the girl, and Sam could just shut the hell up about it.
Sam shook his head. He grabbed a small stack of napkins from the wire basket on the table and began, methodically, to tear them up into long strips, but his eyes never left Dean's. "It's important," he said. "It's really—" he ripped the napkin— "really—" rip— "important."
"Why?" Dean asked, exasperation finally claiming him as he watched Sam destroy the napkin. "The girl's gonna be okay, Sam. They said so," Dean continued. "So why does it matter?"
And then, as if something had snapped inside him, Sam flung the napkin pieces away and slammed his fist down hard on the table. "Because I can't fucking tell what's real anymore!" his voice exploded. Several heads turned their way. The words shocked and cut into them both like shrapnel—Sam even looked astonished at himself for uttering them. In the silence that followed, they could only just look at each other, Sam breathing hard and Dean just staring dumbly back at him.
Sam actually managed to collect himself before Dean did. He shut his eyes and let out a long, shaky breath, then picked up one of the strips of napkin he'd torn and began to twist it in his fingers, now studiously avoiding Dean's gaze.
Dean had to gulp a few times before he could manage to get any words out at all. He reached over to tug at the mangled piece of napkin. "Sam, listen—"
"No, you listen." Sam's head snapped up without warning, his demeanor entirely changed once more, eyes almost feverishly bright. "Since I woke up, everywhere I look, and everything I…I see…" he trailed off, jaw working. "I look at Bobby, a-at you…Do you know what I saw when I looked at Bobby?" His voice was rapid, but strained. "Last night, b-before I almost bashed his brains out?"
Dean shook his head. "Sam…" His voice sounded almost like a warning. He didn't even know what he was trying to warn him against, really. Dangerous territory, don't think about that? Really, how could he not think about it? He didn't even know if Sam keeping his memories to himself would make a lick of difference at this point, anyway—they still had free reign over him. His brain was still gonna be Hell's playground.
Either way, Sam was talking again, words tumbling out like he couldn't stop them if he tried. "I r-remember now. I don't…I can't even…It definitely wasn't Bobby b-back there. Not to me. And you?" He laughed humorlessly. "The only r-reason I can still t-tell that it's you, some of the t-time, m-more 'n Bobby at least and it's only b-been less than twelve hours, is 'cause they liked using you. A-against me. A hundred seventy fucking years an' I n-never forgot what you looked like. Even when I f-forgot everybody else. Never f-forgot you. They made sure I didn't."
Dean felt his stomach revolt at that. Because even if his own time in Hell had been a cake walk compared to Sam's, that was among the worst, if not the worst thing Alastair put him through, and frequently, was making himself look like Sam while he carved Dean up.
Few things break a person quite like that.
"God," he choked out. "God, Sam, I'm not gonna hurt you." Even if Dean couldn't think of a single damn thing to say to the rest of this, that much he needed to make clear. Especially if Sam had spent only less than 30 years of his life with the real him, and a whole century and a half with some demented version of Dean that wanted nothing more than to torment him in every way and on every level imaginable. And Dean suddenly realized why Sam couldn't abide Dean touching him.
"I know," Sam said, his voice cracking. "'S how I know I'm out. G-gotta keep telling myself…" He blinked rapidly, to no avail, against forming tears.
Dean nodded. It was all he could do. He wasn't even sure he remembered how to breathe anymore.
"That," Sam continued, "And…and Death. I remember Death. He was…bright," he said, his brow furrowing as if this surprised him. "R-really bright. Brighter than L-lucifer and Michael both. And, uh," unbelievably, he gave a small, watery smile. "And it really hurt."
Despite the fact that it wasn't something he really found all that amusing, Dean smiled back, though it may have been more of a grimace. "Yeah, I bet."
"B-but even then," Sam said quickly, tears now streaming unchecked down his face, "When I'm seeing stuff and…and feeling stuff, it's really d-damn hard to remember. Remember I'm out. And everything in my head is all right in front of me a-and I'm terrified and I just need to know what's real, okay?"
Shell-shocked, Dean nodded. "Okay." It was barely more than a whisper.
Sam leaned forward over the table, eyes suddenly hard. "Promise me," he demanded, the desperation in his tone leaving no room for argument. "Don't lie again. Promise me."
"I promise."
Dean finished his coffee in silence. He couldn't even taste it anymore, barely noticed the way the heat of it made his nose throb. Sam had stopped ripping up napkins. Eyes dull, he looked empty, drained. As if the effort it cost him to make his admissions about Hell had sapped both his strength and his presence of mind. Dean was pretty sure that were he to shove Sam right now, however lightly, Sam would fall over and probably not get back up.
And that also almost certainly had more than a little to do with the fact that Sam's food still lay untouched before him.
And that, Dean realized with a jolt, was the one damn thing about this entire situation that he could fix.
He nudged the no-longer-warm muffin an inch or so closer to Sam. "You should eat something, Sammy."
Sam didn't move, didn't acknowledge he'd spoken.
Not good.
"Sam," he repeated.
When Sam finally did seem to realize Dean was talking to him, the awareness returning to him looked like somebody resurfacing after a deep sleep. He blinked his now-red-rimmed eyes a few times, sluggishly, focused on Dean. "Mm?"
"Eat something. It's getting cold, dude."
Sam shook his head minutely. When he looked down at the muffin, he grimaced, and Dean could've sworn he'd gone a shade greener at the sight of it.
Dean suppressed a surge of irritation at Sam's lack of cooperation, because even though he knew it wasn't fair, especially after everything Sam had just told him, but it had literally been days—unless he'd managed to make himself stop and eat on the road to Bootback, which Dean doubted but hoped—and Sam was going to kill himself if he kept this up. And even though he was the last person who should be nagging anybody about getting enough to eat right now, again, this was the one way in this whole fucked up mess that he could think of to help take care of his brother right now.
"Come on, Sammy, you gotta be starving by now."
Sam shrugged, noncommittal.
"Don't tell me you're not hungry at all right now. That's bullshit." Now Dean did sound annoyed, and he wished he didn't, but helplessness tended to infuriate him like nothing else could, and damn but being tired and hurt just made it all that much worse.
"I can't," Sam muttered.
"Try."
Sam pushed the food away. "'M sorry," he rasped, now definitely looking ill. "I can't."
"Goddamn it, Sam, just eat already," Dean growled before he could stop himself, shoving the rejected food back at Sam.
And he couldn't have regretted it more.
Because in the very next second, something seemed to shift in Sam's eyes when he looked back at Dean, like something had broken inside him. They were flat and lifeless again. And all of a sudden he was seizing the muffin, robotically tearing it into chunks, and stuffing them into his mouth, as fast as humanly possible, like his life depended on it.
Dean just watched him eat, mouth hanging slightly open, something horrible twisting in his gut. Because yeah, he was eating, but what the hell…
This was wrong.
But Sam just kept on going, head bowed, apparently not caring that he was getting crumbs all over his face and clothes and the table or that he was chewing with his mouth open, as though it didn't matter in the least who was watching.
As though he didn't even have a capacity for shame anymore.
It was when he started choking a little that Dean finally stopped him. "Sam. Sam." He grabbed the remaining pieces of the muffin away from him, and snatched the piece he was about to stuff into his overfull mouth out of his hands. "Stop."
Sam just looked at him, uncomprehending. He swallowed.
"That's enough, okay?" Dean said quietly, handing him a napkin.
Sam took it, stiffly, eyes widening in horror as if he'd only just realized what had happened. He nodded.
"You alright?" Dean asked, somehow sure this was all his fault.
Sam nodded again. He looked faint. "S-sorry," he breathed. "Force of habit."
"Force of—" Dean repeated, bewildered. Then he got it. "Oh."
The realization was like a knife to the heart.
Because he remembered all too well.
Dean had learned the hard way, down there, that there was no point in resisting or fighting back if you were told to do something.
And what that had to do with eating…
Well, he could think of a few things. Could remember, with horrible clarity, a few things.
Like, for example, that no person should be forced to experience the taste of their own entrails.
God, Sammy. What did they do to you?
Sam tried, with badly shaking hands, to brush the crumbs off his face and clothes. He'd gone bone-white.
"Hey, it's okay, it's okay," he said, when Sam clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a sob. "Let's get outta here, huh?"
Sam nodded, but the motion made him gag.
"Don't throw up," he said, though it came out more forceful than he'd meant it to. He hated to issue Sam an order of any kind after what had just happened, but the one good thing that had come out of it, however convoluted and twisted it was for him to be grateful for it, was that Sam had finally gotten some food in his system. And Dean was determined for it to stay in his system.
Sam swallowed convulsively a few times, hand still clamped over his mouth, and nodded, miserably.
"That's good," Dean said, soothingly as he could, though he felt sick himself. "You're okay. You're doing great, Sammy."
Sam just gagged again, screwing his eyes shut.
But he kept his promise not to throw up his food.
At least not until they got back to the motel.
To be continued