A thousand apologize for the delay in this chapter. I wanted it to be up on Monday but...life. Lol! For one thing i went to see Boston live in concert Sunday night which was AWESOME...but not so good when i had to get up for work at 5 am the next morning. So i was pretty exhausted Monday night lol. Tuesday I worked a 12 hr day so I did work on the story in the evening but, again, I was pretty worthless. Today I finally, finally feel satisfied with this chapter. Thanks to my ever phenomenal beta, L.H. the 2nd, for her help on this (and all chapters). Without her help, there would be a lot more grammatical and other errors lol!
Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 7: Never leave you all alone
Sam burned with the fever all night long and Dean sat by his side the entire time; cold towels and melting ice packs at hand. Just about every half hour without fail, he contemplated taking Sam to the urgent care center the manager had not so subtly pointed out to him. Every time, though, Dean had talked himself out of it. Not because he wasn't convinced Sam needed medical attention but because he was afraid of what the medical attention might do to him. The last thing he wanted was for someone to decide Sam needed to be locked up again. Given some of the terrible things he incoherently rambled about, it was a legitimate concern.
So Dean did what he could, which wasn't much, to get them both through the never-ending night. He coaxed Sam to drink sips of water every hour and, except for two occasions, Sam kept the fluids down. There was no point in trying to get him to take any Tylenol, but Dean tried a few times anyway until he just couldn't stomach Sam's terrified pleas at the sight of the pills anymore.
It was torture listening to Sam beg to be allowed to leave; Dean wasn't ever quite sure where Sam thought he was that he wanted so desperately to be able to escape. It didn't really matter. Hell or the hospital, Dean assumed, knowing either one was just as likely as the other. It was torture hearing him beg to be allowed to lay down when he was already flat on the bed. It was torture listening to him endlessly whispering no to things only in his head; things Dean didn't want to even try to imagine, but all too easily could. Nothing Dean said or did eased the awful delirium. He talked himself hoarse by midnight but nothing convinced Sam that he was real. Sam just called for him in a wrecked voice all night long and Dean used the liquor in Bobby's flask to ease his own pain.
Just after three, the fever finally broke, leaving Sam a shivering, sweat-soaked mess. He was confused and exhausted, but more coherent than he'd been in hours. Dean dug out dry clothes and helped Sam change; getting him resettled comfortably in bed took everything they both had left. At least Sam was lucid and finally able to take some Tylenol for the blinding headache he admitted to without much prompting. Sinking back against the pillow, he closed his eyes with a whispered thanks.
Once he was certain Sam had fallen asleep, Dean dragged himself up; ready to head toward the couch and crash for a few hours. He didn't make it that far, though. Bone weary and in pain, he collapsed face first on the other side of the bed. He wasn't in the mood to be choosy and if Sam needed something he'd be that much closer to help when the time came. Feeling justified in hogging one side of the bed, Dean turned his face toward Sam and fell asleep.
Waking up was a slow, difficult process and Sam was 100% sure that he would have preferred to remain asleep. He wondered how long he'd been sick and what he'd been sick with. For a moment, he drew a blank, but as he became more alert, he started to remember. It was all vague and disconnected, and the first thing he could remember clearly was a voice in his head that refused to shut up. Something about that memory made his heart skip a beat, so he decided to leave it alone for the moment. In all honesty, he was far too tired and in too much pain to care. His muscles ached and he felt incredibly weak. He wasn't comfortable, not at all, but he was too tired to try to move.
After a few minutes silently pondering what had happened, Sam forced his eyes open. They closed again almost immediately and it took him three more tries and a whole lot of concentration to keep them open long enough to look around. He found himself staring at a nondescript chair.
Frowning, he tried to make sense of where he was. In a bed. A decent one. Motel? Must be. The chair wasn't anything special but it was right up against the bed as if...Dean. As if Dean had been sitting there. Swallowing, Sam grimaced at the soreness of his throat. Felt like he'd shouted till he had no voice left. Chilled at the thought, Sam pushed it aside. His mouth was dry and he would have given anything for a drink. Knowing he didn't have any hope of getting one for himself, he went back to thinking about the chair and where Dean might be if he wasn't sitting in that chair. The wall beyond the chair and the tiny bit of the room he could barely make out from where he lay told him nothing. He was on his back in bed, covered with a blanket that was making him feel way too warm.
Sam pushed at the blanket weakly, and considered calling for Dean. His throat hurt too much for him to want to try, though, so he just pushed the blanket off his chest, feeling sharp pain in his side as he moved. One hand to his ribs, Sam tilted his head slowly against the pillow until he was able to see the other side of the room. It was dark, although he could see a faint glow of light around the window. Late evening or early morning, he decided, not able to remember which one it was. As his eyes adjusted a bit more to the gloom, he smiled.
Dean was on his stomach, sound asleep next to him on the bed, drooling into the pillow.
With a sigh, his smile faded and Sam let his eyes fall closed. He would have gladly gone back to sleep, but quickly discovered now that he was awake, there was no hope of any more sleep. The soreness of his entire body and the dull headache would have been enough to keep him awake, but he might have been able to ignore them if it weren't for his suddenly racing thoughts. Thoughts that spun in every direction, never settling, never clear. Despite the aggravating muddle, things began to filter back.
Things he would have rather forgotten.
A deafening smash of metal against metal from somewhere close by sent his heart rate skyrocketing.
The slam of the cage door…
Sam's eyes snapped open and then he was sitting up and fighting the sheets and hyperventilating and trying very hard not to wake Dean up with his panic attack. Even as he tried to convince himself of what deep down he knew was true, that he was out of the cage and free from the devil, Sam bit back a scream as he felt a hundred years of agony tear through him. It's over, it's over, it's not happening! He focused on that mantra and got his feet on the floor; ready to run. Where, he wasn't sure, but he was ready to run. Even if he couldn't quite sit up straight.
"Sam?" Dean's voice sounded all wrong. Weak, raspy and pained.
Sam heard movement behind him. He'd awakened his brother, and Dean was probably pushing himself upright, trying to figure out what was going on. He could visualize him and he wanted to turn to him; to confirm he was real. But he couldn't because the merest hint that he might have been wrong about all of it left him paralyzed and unable to turn. The room, already dimly lit, seemed to grow darker and Sam felt the bed shift and that was it. He needed to go now before whatever it was that was behind him grabbed him and yanked him back…
Pushing off the bed, he was on his knees a second later; his legs refused to hold him up. The fall was dizzying and he could hear rushed footsteps and Dean calling his name again. Sam couldn't respond, his voice gone as he sucked in desperate breath after breath. Dark spots were overlaying the darkness of the room and he squeezed his eyes closed, arms wrapped tightly around his chest as the sharp pain in his ribs reminded him that careful breathing was a better idea.
"Sam! Take it easy. Come on, calm down." Dean's voice still sounded off, but he sounded concerned and very close and Sam reached out a hand, blindly searching. He caught a hold of fabric and then felt a hand on his arm as Dean said, "It's just me. Calm down."
The hand on his arm squeezed gently but it felt like his arm was snapping in half. Sam pulled away, feeling the skin shred off his arm...not real! He knew it wasn't. Knew it was just his brother, but he couldn't stop himself. Sam pushed and shoved and hit at the hands that were reaching for him, touching him, pulling him.
"No!" He shouted and his voice sounded as odd as Dean's did. Still batting blindly at the hands that were trying to grab him, Sam lost his balance and fell backwards against the wall. The jolt sent tidal waves of pain through his entire body and he felt scalding hands on his shoulders. Steadying him. Tearing his arms off… Helping. Hurting. Gasping, he doubled his fight and begged, "No, no, no, no...let me go. Let me go!"
The hands let go immediately and, as he kept struggling away, he remembered he was already pressed against the wall and he felt trapped. And the presence, it's just Dean!, was too close and Sam used what strength he had left to push and shove and strike out until he finally registered the fact he was throwing punches at his brother. Even so, he found himself unable to stop until he felt nothing in front of him. He heard a thud, a grunt of pain, and then some very soft, very colorful cursing from a few feet away.
Teeth chattering, breaths coming too fast, Sam pressed back harder against the wall, wrapping his arms around his chest and drawing his knees up for protection. The room was spinning uncontrollably and he felt too hot and too cold all at once. After a few seconds, some of the haze cleared and he could see Dean sitting a few feet away, his back pressed against the bed. Dean had a hand to the middle of his own chest and looked like he might be sick. The expression on his face was nothing short of terrified devastation.
Sam was shaking, breaths pounding against sore ribs, and he felt the burn of tears as he realized what he'd done. Once again, he hadn't been able to tell, hadn't been able to distinguish what was real and what was memory. Nightmare. Sam stared at Dean as he stared back, shocked and worried. Dean was rubbing at his chest and Sam whispered, "I'm sorry."
"Sammy." Dean's voice was hushed, but it sounded right this time. He inched closer, one hand still to his chest, the other raised non-threateningly.
"No, no, please," Sam begged, trying to get further away. The worry in Dean's eyes deepened and Sam hated it. Hated that he'd done that. Warily keeping his eyes on his brother, Sam wanted to explain, but all he could say was, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"Don't." Dean cut him off. He remained exactly where he was, but some of the fear faded and he looked angry. But when he spoke again, he didn't sound angry. "Don't apologize. Sam, stop it. Please, man. It's ok. Alright? It's ok. You're fine."
Sam nodded, lifting one hand to rub at his eyes.
Dean stayed still as he said, "You need to calm down now, though. Slow breaths."
It took what seemed like a lifetime, but finally Sam's breathing eased. Some of the panic began to fade, leaving him dazed and ill. He let his head rest back against the wall as he kept his eyes on Dean. His brother remained exactly where he had been, although he lowered his hand.
"Wanna tell me what happened?" Dean asked softly after another silent minute.
Sam's breath caught and he started to shake his head, but instead admitted, "I heard it."
"Heard what?"
He didn't hear it! It wasn't real. It was all in your head, you are still crazy!
"Sam? Heard what?"
"Th-th-the cage…the door...it slammed and I…" Sam stammered, trying to push away the memory of the awful sound.
Dean shook his head and said quickly, "It was a car door, Sam. A car door. From up the road. That's all it was. Ok? I heard it too. I heard it too."
The relief hit him like a Mack truck. Relief that it had been real and relief that Dean knew him well enough to understand what had happened.
"You weren't sure it was real, were you?" Dean asked, voice low, cautious.
Sam shook his head and said again, "I'm sorry."
"Sam…"
"Woke you up."
"Not the first time…"
"Punched you."
Dean snorted, "Dude, we need to do more training if that's what you're calling a punch these days."
Sam tried to appreciate the humor, but he was too miserable. For what seemed like the tenth time, he said, "I'm sorry."
"Stop saying that." Dean ground out like he was personally offended. He cautiously leaned forward and his voice was low and gentle again when he said, "It's all ok. I just...I don't know what," he broke off, then ran a hand through his hair, leaving it looking even worse than it already did as he added, "I don't know how to help you."
Since he didn't have any good suggestions on that topic, Sam lowered his head to rest against his arms across his knees. He heard Dean moving and Sam stiffened, trying to keep as far away as he could. Then Dean sighed and the silence that followed was uncomfortable and heavy but there was no more movement. For what seemed like a really long time, they sat in silence. His heart rate slowly returned to something closer to normal and Sam started to relax.
The silence went on for another few minutes until Dean said, "Sam? How're you…"
"Leave me alone." Sam said, hating himself even as he said it. But Dean was too loud, everything was too loud, and he needed it all to stop for awhile.
Dean sighed again and even that was too loud. There was a clock ticking somewhere and he could hear his breathing and Dean's breathing and the sound of his heartbeat. Too loud! Sam wanted to put his hands over his ears to block it all out, but couldn't spare the energy. His hands were digging into his knees, holding him together. He pressed his head against his arms. Everything was one wrong move from falling apart.
He lost track of time but a moment finally came where he stopped noticing his heartbeat, his breathing, Dean's breathing, the clock. The room was quiet. Sam turned his head until he could see past his arms. Dean was sitting against the bed, legs spread out in front of him, hands at his sides, head tilted back against the bed. His mouth was hanging open.
Asleep.
Sam relaxed a little more. He closed his eyes and rested for a long time. The position was uncomfortable and he was cold, and he didn't think he could move if he wanted to. But he was extremely thirsty. Opening his eyes again, he didn't move, but asked, "Dean?"
Dean sucked in a breath, then yawned. His head rolled along the edge of the bed and Sam could tell it took effort for him to get his eyes open. But once they were open, it was like a switch was flipped. He lifted his head quickly, but made no other fast movements. Dean looked at him and asked, "Yeah?"
"Water?"
"Sure." Dean said, keeping his voice low. He pushed himself forward an inch, eyes wary. He asked, "You ok?"
"I'm not gonna freak out if you stand up." Sam said, realizing why Dean was moving so carefully. Embarrassment flooded him as he remembered his spectacular freak out from earlier. He was trying to help you and you punched him, no wonder he's moving slow!
Dean's face twitched, then he smiled, "Just checkin."
Despite his claim, Sam watched Dean with an uneasy flutter in his stomach. Dean seemed to sense it, because he kept his movements very slow as he pushed himself to his feet, using the bed for support. By the time he got to his feet, Sam had managed to lift his head off his arms. He leaned back against the wall and watched Dean. He moved stiffly, his steps pausing midway as he rubbed at his chest, before he finished crossing the room. Something seemed off, Sam frowned. It made sense that Dean would be tired, stiff even from sitting on the floor. But there was something else going on. His posture was all wrong. He moved like he was hurting.
Sam made a mental note to ask him about it. After he had a drink. Dean came back with the bottle of water in his hand and crouched down by the end of the bed; a careful four feet away. He took the cap off, then met Sam's gaze and waited.
"I'm ok." Sam insisted, sensing the hesitation. He forced a smile and held out a hand that was disturbingly shaky. Dean nodded and moved closer; but every movement was still slow and deliberate. Sam hated it. It made him feel stupid, weak, broken. Tension erupted and he practically shouted, "Stop acting like I'm going to have a panic attack!"
Never mind that he'd just had one moments ago… He was breathing heavily again, staring at Dean, defensive and furious and ready to fight.
Dean didn't even blink an eye at his outburst. He seemed completely unimpressed and just asked mildly, "You done?"
Sam deflated, feeling like a five-year old. Growing up, Dad had usually blown his stack at his tantrums, but Dean always let him fuss and holler, usually till he was too breathless to continue, then he'd simply ask, you done? No matter how old he'd been, no matter what the outburst had been about, that had been Dean's standard response. One of the only times he could remember Dean not asking that had been the night he'd left for Stanford and that was something he did not want to think about right now.
Headache flaring, he nodded, held out a hand, and said, "Give it to me."
Pointing at Sam's shaking hand Dean said, "Fine. You gonna wear it or you want help?"
"Just give it to me." Sam reached out, patience long gone.
Dean's mouth tightened, but he held out the bottle. Sam took it and managed not to spill a drop. He had to close both hands around it or he would have dropped it, though. Resting it on his knee, he stared at it. The bottle shook in his hands and the water bounced so much it made him feel seasick. Stomach turning, he closed his eyes, tightening his grip on the bottle until the plastic crackled under his fingers.
"Sam."
"What?" He snapped, not opening his eyes.
"Stop being an idiot." Dean said and he didn't sound annoyed or angry. He just sounded normal. Sam forced his eyes open. Dean held out a hand and asked, "Will you just let me help you?"
Sam nodded. The hell with pride, just get me a drink!
"Ok." Dean sounded relieved. He inched forward again, but this time his movement wasn't so skittish. His hand pushed one of Sam's aside, then closed around the bottle.
Together, they managed to keep the water from spilling as he took a drink. The water wasn't cold but it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. His mouth was so dry and his throat was so painful that he wanted to keep drinking until the entire bottle was gone, but Dean pulled it away. Sam let him take it because he was too tired to hold it any longer.
Dean put the bottle on the floor between them and settled against the bed opposite him, still crouched down, arms resting on his knees. He asked, "How's it settling?"
Sam rocked a hand back and forth. It was settling. Not as well as he would have liked, but at least it wasn't coming straight back up.
"Give it a minute then you can have some more." Dean said, sounding confident and authoritative all at once.
Nodding, Sam stretched his stiff legs out in front of him, feeling the weakness in his muscles as he did so. Remembering the uncomfortable way Dean had been moving earlier, he asked, "Are you ok?"
"Yeah." Dean nodded.
Sam didn't believe him. Dean didn't look ok. The longer he studied him, the more concerned Sam grew. Because it didn't look like he was the only one who had been sick. Registering the dark circles under Dean's bloodshot eyes, the pallor of his skin, the weariness in his posture, Sam almost could pass it off as the effects of Dean exhausting himself to the breaking point from taking care of him. But deep down, he knew better. Something more was going on with his brother.
"What's wrong with you?" Sam pressed.
"Nothing." Dean answered predictably. He shook his head and said, "Been a long week is all."
Sam agreed with him on that point, even if he still knew Dean was hiding something.
"Wanna try some more water?" Dean asked, picking up the bottle.
Reaching for it, Sam managed to hold it himself this time. A little splashed on his shirt, but the important thing was that he'd managed on his own. It was a pathetic thing to feel proud of, but he couldn't help it. Setting it back down on the floor, he almost spilled it. Dean caught it in the nick of time. He left the bottle where it was and asked, "You want to try to get back into bed now?"
"No." Sam said immediately. He didn't want to even consider moving yet.
Dean didn't press the issue.
"Time's it?" Sam mumbled, still not sure if the pale light around the windows was from early morning or late evening light.
"Just after six." Dean answered, sounding like he could easily fall asleep.
"In the morning?" Sam asked, frowning.
"Yes, genius. Morning usually follows long, sleepless nights." Dean yawned.
"I don't remember." Sam said, even though he did. Parts of it anyway. He watched Dean's eyes slide closed and said, "You can go back to bed."
"Oh. Ok, Sam. Sure." Dean said, the sarcasm thick in his tone as he sat up a bit more and leveled a glare. "I'll just hop under the covers and take a nice nap and leave you there on the floor."
Sam laughed and saw the surprise in Dean's eyes. With a tired smile, he said, "Seriously. You look like hell. I'm fine right now. I'm not going anywhere."
Dean rolled his eyes. Ignoring Sam's statement, Dean asked, "You think you can handle it if I grab something to eat?"
Sam considered. The water was doing ok so far and even though he wasn't ready to try to eat anything yet, he decided he could probably tolerate it; depending on what Dean intended to eat. Before he could say that though, Dean continued, "I picked up some blueberry muffins yesterday. Nothing too smelly. What do you think?"
"Ok."
Dean nodded and pulled himself slowly to his knees. He paused, cast him another assessing look, and asked, "Still dizzy?"
"Yeah. But better than yesterday," Sam admitted. Things are only spinning in one direction today so that's something at least.
Dean smiled, pleased. He got to his feet, then sat on the edge of the bed as if he were too tired to move further than that without a break. Rubbing the back of his neck, he yawned again, then asked, "Try some more Dramamine?"
"Sure."
As Dean rose and crossed the room, Sam closed his eyes and waited. He decided there was actually a chance he was going to be ok after all. In the next second, though, he decided he shouldn't have been quite so optimistic. Because, for the first time, he realized how quiet it was. It should have been a good thing. After months of never-ending chatter. Months of trying to block out his voice. It should have been wonderful. He couldn't understand why it wasn't. But it wasn't wonderful. It was the opposite of wonderful. Sam tried to focus on the sounds of Dean moving around, getting the Dramamine and the muffins. It wasn't enough.
Swallowing hard, he called out, "Dean?"
Dean turned immediately and Sam could see that Dean knew something was wrong. He thought he'd kept the panic out of his voice, but obviously he hadn't done as good a job as he thought he had.
"What's wrong?" Dean asked, hurrying back over, one muffin in his hand; the box of Dramamine in the other. He hovered a few feet away, apparently unsure what he should do. He prompted, "Sam? What happened?"
Fighting to keep himself from having another panic attack, Sam said, "It's nothing. Just….can you...can you turn the TV on?"
Dean looked completely floored. It took him a long time to process the request and by then Sam was ready to peel his own skin off to distract himself from the silence. Dean tossed the box of medicine on the bed and turned quickly to flip the TV on. He glanced at Sam and asked, "There a documentary on at six in the morning that you didn't wanna miss?"
Sam loved him for the attempt at humor. All he said was, "Turn it up."
Dean did so without comment. He hovered by the TV for a few seconds and, even though Sam closed his eyes, he could feel Dean's assessing gaze. He heard movement and knew from the way Dean sighed that he hadn't hidden his flinch as well as he would have liked. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Dean sit down across from him again. Dean set the muffin on the floor next to him and shook out a tablet of the Dramamine. He said, "Try this. Then in a few minutes, maybe you'll be willing to try something to eat."
Sam nodded, taking the pill with another sip of water. His hands were still shaking badly enough that he had to set the bottle down in between each drink he took. Dean unwrapped his muffin, studying him the entire time. For a few minutes, they were quiet. The TV in the background helped ease the fear he didn't know how to describe. Sam kept drinking the water and avoiding Dean's gaze.
"Wanna tell me what's going on?" Dean asked softly.
Looking over at him, Sam saw that Dean was keeping his eyes on his muffin as he carefully broke off a small bite. Sam wasn't sure he was ready to discuss what was going on yet. The silence continued and Dean let it go. He finished the muffin, then looked up and said, "Not too bad."
Knowing that was Dean's subtle way of trying to see if Sam was ready to eat something, Sam considered it. He'd almost finished off the bottle of water which was more than he'd been able to keep down before. Maybe it was time to consider eating.
Dean must have sensed his thoughts, because he asked, "When's the last time you ate?"
Sam honestly couldn't remember.
What he did remember was the last few times he'd tried to eat. And he wished he hadn't started thinking about it. He remembered the maggots crawling out of his sandwich and the other stuff he'd seen in his food and the mere memory of it turned his stomach. He heard Dean cursing as all the water came back up before he even realized he was going to puke.
And once he started, he couldn't stop. Stomach cramping, he leaned forward and dry heaved until he thought he was going to die. Pain flared behind his eyes and he felt Dean's hands catching him as he lost all sense of which way was up and which way was down. He couldn't catch his breath, couldn't stop heaving even though he had nothing left to bring up. Dean was talking to him, holding on to him, but Sam couldn't make out anything he was saying over the ringing in his ears.
Curling up in a ball, Sam could taste the tang of copper on his tongue and it just made him retch even harder.
This was a vivid example of why you should never, ever think the dangerous thought things can only get better from here. Dean had been every bit as surprised by what had happened as Sam had been. Things had been going ok. Everything had calmed down and Dean had dared to hope they were making progress. He probably should have guessed that the thought of food might not settle as well with Sam as the water had settled. Even so, he hadn't expected this. And neither had Sam. Dean had seen the complete shock in his eyes when the water started coming up. The shock had faded almost immediately as the painful dry heaving had begun.
Sam crumpled forward, still heaving and trying to curl up into the smallest ball possible. Dean caught him, eased him onto his side, cringing as he listened to the painful gagging and gasping noises Sam was making now. Rubbing his back, not sure if that was helping anything or not, Dean at least took comfort in the fact Sam wasn't pushing him away. His reaction earlier had scared Dean more than he wanted to admit. After the long, miserable night, having Sam fighting him, scrambling away from him left Dean truly wondering if they were ever going to be able to put the pieces back together.
He knew that this was probably more of a panic response than anything else, not that Sam didn't have plenty of reasons to be nauseated. Dean kept up a litany of completely useless platitudes as he waited for Sam to calm. The dry heaving just would not quit, though, and Dean choked on his next words when he leaned down a bit more and caught sight of Sam's face. The splatter of blood on his lips was enough to make Dean get to his feet and head for the phone. Thoughts spinning, Dean knew that the blood was probably just from the vicious retching, but he wasn't ready to take anything for granted. Hating every second that he left Sam laying there on the dingy carpet, Dean practically ran to the bathroom for a damp washcloth. Snagging his phone on the way back, Dean shoved it into his pocket. Reaching his brother's side, he found himself able to take an easier breath.
Sam had finally stopped sounding like he was going to vomit up every internal organ. His eyes were even open. Slightly. But they were tracking Dean's movements and that helped ease his panic. A little. The sight of blood on his brother's lips was going to ensure he remained in the general vicinity of panic for a while longer. One arm wrapped around his chest, Sam was breathing like it hurt, which it no doubt did, and shaking so hard Dean could almost feel the floor vibrating. Sam's free hand touched his throat and Dean saw the pain in his eyes as his mouth moved wordlessly and he gagged again.
"Stop that. Calm down." Dean said as if his order would have any effect. Kneeling down, he quickly wiped the washcloth over Sam's mouth. Once the blood was gone, Dean relaxed a little more. He balled up the bloody washcloth and pitched it aside; last thing he wanted was for Sam to see the blood. Based on his reaction to, well everything, Dean didn't want to see what would happen if he saw that. One hand on Sam's shoulder, he said, "Starting to think we need a hospital, Sam."
Dean wasn't surprised at the quick shake of the head he got in response. Sam's hand was still pressed to his throat and he gagged again as he tried to say something. Wishing there was something, anything, he could to to help with the pain, Dean said, "Don't talk, you idiot. Just shut up and listen to me."
That earned him a pissy glare. Dean ignored it and twisted around, snatching a pillow off the bed. He leaned back down and eased Sam's head off the floor and onto the pillow. Leaving his hand behind Sam's neck for a moment, Dean cursed inwardly as he felt the warmth. Nowhere near as bad as it had been during the night, but too warm to be normal.
Sitting back, he said, "You're not getting better."
Sam's lips moved again and even though the sound that came out was hoarse and almost inaudible, Dean knew what he'd said. Shaking his head, Dean smiled and said, "You're not fine. Try selling that pack of lies to someone who hasn't spent the past two days with you."
"No hospital." Sam whispered brokenly, hand still to his throat.
Sighing, Dean said, "Well then get better would you?"
Sam snorted, then grimaced. He said, "Taste blood."
"Yeah. That's what happens when you upchuck that much nothing," Dean commented, sounding a lot more casual than he felt. "How about some water?"
All he got in response was a groan.
Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket. A slip of paper drifted to the floor next to him. Glancing down, he picked it up and a different thought crossed his mind as he remembered his chance meeting yesterday. He looked back at Sam who was studying him quizzically. Considering, Dean smoothed out the note.
"What's that?" Sam asked and Dean grimaced at the sound of Sam's voice. As if he hadn't sounded bad before, Dean mused, eyes still on the note.
"You did." Sam spoke again, a hint of a smile in his reddened eyes.
"Did what?" Dean looked up, feeling like he'd missed half of the conversation.
"Got a girl's number."
Dean couldn't help but grin. He had gotten a girl's number. He said, "It's not what you think."
Sam's eyebrow rose and, finally, he stopped rubbing at his throat.
Knowing he was waiting for an explanation, Dean asked, "You remember that time in Arizona? That Christmas right after we went back on the road together?"
There was a long silence, then a light went on in Sam's dull eyes and Dean knew he remembered when he smiled, "Yeah."
"Ran into Arla yesterday."
"Really?"
Dean nodded.
"How is she?" Sam asked, showing more interest in this conversation than he'd shown in anything for the past two days.
"Good." Dean smiled briefly. "She said they're doing good. They're here on vacation. Gave me her cell phone number."
After that, conversation died off for a few seconds. Dean met Sam's eyes briefly and could easily read his thoughts. They were both thinking the same thing. She would help them in a heartbeat. They only needed to ask.
Sam looked at the piece of paper in Dean's hand and whispered, "You gonna call her?"
"I don't know," Dean said, following his gaze back to the piece of paper. He stared at it for a moment, then looked back at Sam and decided that the decision was up to him. Dean asked, "Do you want me to?"
"No."
Dean crumpled the paper up, hating the expression on Sam's face. Shame. He doesn't want her to see him like this. Doesn't want her to know what he's been through. Dean knew without needing to have it spelled out for him. Pitching the paper into the wastebasket, he sighed and said, "Sam."
"I know." Sam whispered. "I'm trying."
"I know you are. I'm just…" Dean broke off. What was he? Worried? Hell, yes. Terrified? Hell, yes. Did he want to admit any of that to his little brother? Hell, no!
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Think I'm ready to get off the floor." Sam said, swallowing painfully and putting a hand down on the carpet to push himself slowly back to a sitting position. He wavered unsteadily and leaned against the wall, face ashen.
Dean rubbed his neck and knelt down next to Sam, feeling the pull of strained muscles. It wasn't just his back that was bothering him, either. Maybe the muffin had been bad or something, because his stomach didn't feel right. Probably a combination of not eating right, not sleeping, oh and hauling a giant, deadweight little brother everywhere. He grabbed a hold of his giant, deadweight little brother and tried not to groan as he hauled him back to the bed. Sam curled up on his side, facing the other side of the room, hands digging into the other pillow.
Taking a quick walk around the bed, Dean rubbed at his sore back and sat down on the edge of the bed. Sam looked up at him and Dean asked, "Comfy?"
"Yeah."
And if it hadn't been for the misery written all over him, Dean might actually have believed him. He asked, "Water?"
Sam shook his head.
"You've got an hour." Dean declared. And he meant it. One hour. He needed to see improvement. He needed to see a miracle. He needed to see something.
"Till what?" Sam asked, and it wasn't because he didn't know what Dean's ultimatum meant.
"Till you turn into a pumpkin." Dean rolled his eyes, seeing the challenge in Sam's eyes.
"That happens at midnight, not seven in the morning."
Always gotta argue about everything, always gotta be right about everything, Dean thought in amusement. He said, "In case you somehow missed the newsflash, our lives have nothing in common with fairy tales."
"No fairy godmother?" Sam asked with a smile.
"No singing mice either." Dean grinned. "Did meet the big bad wolf though."
"And plenty of wicked witches."
"I hate witches." Dean shuddered. Sam nodded, then closed his eyes and Dean asked, "You gonna try to sleep?"
"Don't think I can." Sam's fingers tightened on the pillow he was gripping.
Dean decided not to push the subject. Instead, he asked, "You want the water?"
"Thought I had an hour."
"Thought we established this wasn't a fairy tale."
"No happy ending?"
Dean's jaw tightened. It could have been funny, but it really wasn't. Before he could comment, Sam went on quietly, "I don't even care if it's happy. Honestly. I just like the thought that there is an end."
"Sam." Dean said, not liking the turn the conversation had taken.
Sam looked at him with a sigh, melting into the pillow as he said, "You should go back to sleep. You're gonna get sick if you aren't already."
"I'm not sick." Dean insisted, even though deep down, he had a really bad feeling that he was.
"Then...just...be quiet for awhile." Sam said wearily and lifted his hand from the bed briefly to give a half-hearted wave.
"Sam…"
"Please?" Sam begged, pressing his hands to his eyes. "My head is killing me."
"You've got fifty-nine minutes." Dean said, getting to his feet because he could tell the conversation was over.
He made it halfway to the couch before almost doubling over in pain. Biting back the gasp of pain, Dean wavered where he stood. Hand pressed to his stomach, he fought to draw breath. The blueberry muffin threatened a reappearance and he turned toward the bathroom. By the time he made it to the door, the pain had returned to a tolerable level and he didn't feel quite so close to throwing up as he had a second ago. Leaning against the door frame, he tried to catch his breath.
"I would have liked to see them again."
If he hadn't already felt ill, his brother's soft confession, and the longing in his words would have done the trick. Dean turned around, keeping one hand against the wall, and said, "I know. Maybe when you're on your feet again. She invited us for dinner…"
"No." Sam said immediately, "We need to stay away from them. It's not safe."
Dean agreed, but didn't bother saying so. He started again to head for the couch, but stopped when he heard Sam ask, almost desperately, "You leaving?"
Pausing, Dean shook his head and asked, "What are you talking about?"
"Nothing. Never mind."
"Sam. Don't do that." Dean said, sensing a change in his brother; an increase in his anxiety yet again. "I'm not going anywhere, ok? Talk to me. What's going on?"
Sam met his eyes and said, "The worst thing he did…"
Dean didn't need any clarification as to who the he was. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to hold Sam's gaze. If he was willing to talk about this, then Dean was going to be man enough to look him in the eye when he did so.
"He…" Sam started again after a brief hesitation, "He'd...you'd be there. A lot. Most of the time, actually. And no matter what...whatever else happened, the worst thing was when...you left me there alone. I knew it wasn't you, but it..nothing hurt as much as that did."
Sam's voice broke and he finally dropped his gaze.
"I am right here." Dean said immediately, voice like steel, low and steady. He walked back to the bed, leaned over and grabbed Sam's shoulder as hard as he could and said, "I am right here, Sammy and I am not going anywhere. You hear me? I am not leaving you. Now or ever."
He waited silently as several moments passed. His heart was in his throat as he waited to see if any of his words had registered with his brother. Finally, Sam looked at him again and nodded. Dean wasn't convinced Sam believed him, but it was a start. He released his grip, straightened and said, "Get some sleep."
"I'm supposed to sleep for fifty-nine minutes?" Sam asked, trying so hard to sound bitchy but he just sounded tired and scared.
"Fifty-five minutes." Dean muttered. He checked his watch, then stared blankly at the tv. "You still want that on?"
"Yes."
Nodding, Dean took one step toward the couch when Sam said, "You should sleep too. For fifty-five minutes."
Dean glanced at him and waved a hand at the couch, but Sam shook his head and slid back from the edge of the bed. He whispered, "I know you didn't sleep last night. Just lay down for awhile will you?"
"I'm not three. I don't need a nap."
"I don't care. I need you to get some rest, ok?" Sam tapped his hand against the bed and said, "I'm having...it's a little...it's hard to remember I'm not in hell when you're looking like a damned corpse!"
Dean stared at him in shock, hearing the desperation, the way Sam's voice rose to a shout at the end. He knew the couch was a pull out bed, but he didn't have anywhere near the energy required to deal with that. All the fight melted out of him and he stumbled to the bed. Sitting on the edge, he said, "You steal the blankets or drool on my shoulder and I'll kick your ass out of bed."
"Deal." Sam almost smiled. He scooted back another inch, relief written all over his face.
Rolling his eyes, Dean shoved him over a few more inches just to be a pain; just to restore something resembling normalcy to the situation. Sam was doing everything except spelling it out for him that he was scared to death. After everything that had happened, Dean didn't blame him, but it was disturbing all the same. Settling against the pillow, he had to admit laying back down felt pretty good. He took a quick peek at his brother, saw his eyes were closed and he seemed to finally be relaxed. Dean put his arm across his eyes, blocking out the light from the tv and the windows.
Fifty minutes, he told himself, then we start putting the pieces back together. Fifty minutes and Sam starts eating and drinking and getting better.
Dean felt the bed shift and then felt Sam's head press against his shoulder. He smiled, but didn't move. He just whispered, "No drool."
The laugh he got in response made him believe, for the first time, that they were going to be ok.
Hope you enjoyed this chapter!
Also...did anyone watch the finale!? AHHHHHHHHH! PM me if you want to chat about it. I'm quite frankly beside myself right now...
