A/N: A huge thank you to Mandancie for being there to read, read, and read this chapter over again until I got it right. I hope you enjoy the final product.
Chapter Nine
Dean leaned in the doorway and watched his brother sleep. It had taken hours to fix the damage Sam had done. Even with Bobby's skilled fingers helping, it was going to leave a nasty scar. Dean hated the thought of another lasting reminder forever marked on his brother's skin. He had enough scars for a lifetime—for a hundred lifetimes. He didn't need more. Dean wished he could wipe it all away. If only he could take it all on himself. He would do that for his brother in a heartbeat. He would go through it all, so Sam could have a life without pain. He deserved it.
Each of Sam's breathes were even and deep. He lay with no shirt, his blanket pulled up to cover most of his chest, the white gauze peeking out from under the covers. If it weren't for seeing the bandaging, you'd think Sam was just sleeping, but that wasn't the case. He was heavily medicated.
The tranquilizers they'd given him had worked fast and well. It worked out that Bobby knew a reformed werewolf who happened to be a veterinarian, something Bobby had kept quiet until Dean asked where he got all the heavy meds from. Bobby kept the doctor's secret, and in return, he got all the supplies he needed—that's if he stuck to an all animal diet. Bobby planned on making a call to him in the morning for antibiotics—just in case. They'd tried to keep things as sterile as possible, but with Sam's luck, they weren't taking chances.
Dean knew Bobby was concerned. He hadn't seen the older hunter looked so tense than he did stitching up Sam during the night. It had been a mess. Dean could tell it had gotten to Bobby as his hands shook every time he pulled the thread tight. It wasn't like Bobby to shake. It was never easy stitching up one of your own, but it seemed even harder stitching Sam. Maybe it was because he did it to himself, maybe it was because he was Dean's responsibility. Every stitch was another moment in time Dean felt he failed his brother.
Dean sighed, taking in how peaceful Sam looked. He was thankful that his brother was having a moment free from the torment of his mind. Dean wondered what Sam had seen in the darkness of the bedroom. Had it been Lucifer? Was Lucifer behind the damage he had done, or was it worse, was it Dean? Had his actions caused it all to cascade and Sam to break? He felt he knew the answer and it made his body feel heavy with guilt.
Bobby cleared his throat quietly behind him. "So, you ready to talk about this?"
Dean let out a breath. "Yeah. I guess we should."
"Come on, I'll get the scotch." Bobby patted Dean on the arm. "He won't be waking up anytime soon, not with the amount meds he's on."
Dean nodded and pushed himself from the doorframe, leaving the door open just in case Sam woke. With one last glance at his brother, he followed Bobby down the hall.
Once they got to the living room, Bobby grabbed the bottle of scotch and two glasses, pouring a measure of amber liquid into each. He set the bottle down and walked to Dean, passing him a glass.
Dean swirled the liquor, watching it absently. His mind was still stuck on Sam. He felt like he should be upstairs watching over him. He couldn't let something like this happen to his brother again.
"I know you're thinking you want to run right back up there and hover like a mother hen, but like I told ya earlier, he's out for at least another six hours."
Dean looked up from his scotch. Bobby looked exhausted. It had been a long night—or long morning—depending on how you looked at it. The sun was just starting to rise, the glow of early morning sunlight filtering through the dingy, yellowed curtains.
"So, you gonna start talking or we just gonna stand here?" Bobby asked, taking a drink.
Dean took a sip of his scotch. "Yeah, I guess we should. Where should I start?"
"Oh, I don't know." Bobby motioned in the air before his voice went sharp. "Maybe what the hell that was all about? You said he was hurting himself, Dean! Not tearing his own flesh out for Christ's sake!"
Bobby's words hit Dean hard. He didn't really know what to say. He couldn't blame Bobby for being upset. "Yeah, I know. It wasn't ever that bad before. I screwed up."
"Well, what are we gonna do? Babysit him?" Bobby ran a hand through his thinning hair. "He ain't gonna go for that. For all we know, it might make things worse."
Dean nodded. "I know. We used to have a deal—even before Lucifer. He would come to me first, give me a chance to stop him. Now, I don't know."
"Hold on, you said he started this to deal with Lucifer. You mean this was going on before? And you didn't tell me."
Dean hadn't mentioned that part because in a way it made his brother seem even more broken, but also because Dean felt guilty. It was his doing that Sam got the idea to cut in the first place. He'd suggested that pain could ground you. He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. He might as well tell Bobby everything. He needed to know.
"It started before Lucifer appeared," he confessed. "I caught him doing it after the Plucky's thing. He'd cut his leg up bad. We talked about it though. I helped him through the urges. It seemed to be working—then Lucifer and the crazy train arrived." Dean kicked back the rest of the drink.
Bobby grabbed the bottle of scotch and walked over to Dean, pouring another measure in his glass. "Looks like you could some more."
Dean glanced at his glass and nodded, taking a drink. "What are we gonna do?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. I guess we need to get him talking. That's the only way to help him heal. We need to figure out why he's seeing the damn devil, too. That's just another basket of crazy right there."
"You think it's supernatural? I mean, he is seeing Lucifer after all," Dean asked.
Bobby drew a breath and took another drink. "It might be the devil he's seeing, but I don't think it's that simple. I think this is all coming from Sam's head. Call me crazy, but I wonder if … never mind."
"You wonder what?"
"I wonder if maybe Lucifer is part of Sam. I mean, I'm no head shrinker but maybe Lucifer represents something to the kid," Bobby said. "What happened to Sam leaves behind scars, scars unlike anything else. They can change a person. Sam was just a kid, Dean. He spent his whole life with that shit living in his head. I think this is deeper. I think he's seeing Lucifer for a reason."
"The only reason he's seeing Lucifer is because he's got a head full of hell."
Bobby nodded his head. "Like I said, just an old man's thoughts."
"Do you think you can get your wolfboy to prescribe some antidepressants or something?" Dean asked. "I mean, it's clear he's depressed—might be a start."
"You really think Sam will take them?" Bobby raised a brow.
"We can only try," Dean drank the last of his scotch and walked to window, watching the sun rise over the stacks of junkers.
xXx
The first thing Sam felt when he woke was the tight pulling pain on his side. He ached and just trying to adjust his arm sent pain through his side. He bit his lip as he tried to push himself up. The afternoon sun was beating in the window. Sam felt like he had slept for days but his head was still foggy. He ran a hand over his face.
Footsteps were coming up the stairs and he pulled the blanket up, noting the neatly taped gauze covering his side. He was curious what it looked like underneath. He hadn't seen how much damage he'd done, but it must have been bad to need Bobby's help. He wondered what Dean had told him. He couldn't imagine Bobby finding out the truth. He already felt exposed enough. Maybe coming to Bobby's had been a bad idea.
A rap at the half-opened door grabbed Sam's attention. It was Dean.
"Hey, welcome back to the land of the living. Bobby thought you'd be out 'til noon. It's two. Guess you needed sleep."
Sam couldn't believe he'd slept that long. He didn't even remember a nightmare, just nothingness. Whatever Bobby had given had worked great—too bad he couldn't take it every night.
"Yeah, I feel pretty good." Sam looked at the bowl in Dean's hand. "What's that?"
"Oatmeal," Dean said. "Made it myself."
"I'll pass then."
"Don't be such a bitch. Bobby made it. Like I'd cook," Dean's joked, but Sam could see something else behind the playful banter. Dean looked worn-out, his eyes tired and red. "Come on, just eat it." He walked over and passed the bowl to Sam.
Sam stirred the bland looking porridge before daring a bite. It tasted about how it looked, but Sam felt like he should eat it. He owed it to Dean after what he'd put him through the night before.
"Well?" Dean asked.
Sam swallowed the overcooked oats. "Good."
"Good, because I lied. I made it." Dean sat on the bed. He motioned to the gauze with his chin. "How's the side feeling?"
Sam stopped eating and began to stir what was left, anything to avoid discussing what happened between them.
"Well?" Dean asked impatiently.
Sam looked down. "It's fine."
"I thought we were past this, Sam. I had my fingers holding you together last night. I know it's not fine."
Sam knew he was right. He needed to start being more honest. He owed it to Dean.
"It hurts a little," he said as he pushed the food around the bowl.
Dean nodded and stood, pulling some pills from his pocket. "Got the good stuff." He passed them to Sam. "Hang on. Let me get the water from the nightstand for you. Don't need you pulling those stitches."
Sam popped the pills in mouth and took the proffered water, taking a long drink. The cool water feeling good on his dry throat. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was.
"We need to talk about last night," Dean said, making Sam glance at his brother. He looked serious and Sam's stomach dropped. He wasn't ready for this. He wished he could just disappear. He tried pushing himself up in the bed further, maybe to escape, but a tearing pain stopped him, and he yelped.
Dean's firm hand pressed on his chest and held him in place. "Easy. Sorry, but you're not going anywhere. We got you're side back together but just barely. If you tear those again, we won't be able to fix it. You'll need to go to the hospital and we'll have a lot to explain."
Sam wanted to protest, but Dean was probably right so he nodded.
"Now, get ready to listen because we need to talk," Dean said.
Sam sighed. "Dean, it's fine. Please, we don't need to do this."
"Tough, we need to do this because I don't think you get it."
Sam looked up at Dean. "I know what happened. I made you sick."
"Dammit, Sam. You don't make me sick. It's thinking about what those bastards did to you that makes me sick. Never you. I hate what happened to you. I can't stand thinking of … I just … It's not you." Dean ran a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. "Sam, you need to open up to me. I can handle it. Put it on me. Let me carry it for it. We need to talk about it."
Sam couldn't. Putting words to the things that had happened, talking about how it made him feel. He felt too ashamed to say it all aloud.
"I can't, Dean. Please, just drop it," Sam begged.
The conversation began to stir the shadows in Sam's mind. He suddenly felt dirty like there were hands on him. His heart began to beat faster. The ghosts of his mind were back, and he was drowning in their darkness.
"I can handle it, Sam. Lay it on me, the clown, Hell, Lucifer, everything. I won't leave your side. Let me help you."
"Dean, please," Sam begged, squeezing his eyes shut. "I can't do this right now."
"What happened to you?" Dean pushed.
He needed the conversation to stop. Why was Dean doing this to him? Tears began to prick at his eyes and a sob broke from him. He felt like a child again.
A warm hand pressed against his chest and he tried to focus on it, but he was slipping fast.
"Sam, stay with me. It's okay. I'm sorry. We don't need to talk. Just calm down."
Sam's breathes were coming in hitched gasps. It was too late. He was back there, following the orders of the clown, helpless and alone. He could smell him, taste him. Sam felt his stomach lurch and he gagged, gasping for air.
"Sam, stop! Breathe!" Dean's voice sounded distant.
Suddenly a familiar voice cut through the chaos that was consuming him. "Looks like I gotta chime in here," it said casually.
Sam's eyes darted toward the sound to see Lucifer, standing there looking sympathetic across the room.
"If you don't get a grip, and I mean like in the next few secs, you're going to end up in the fetal position and Bobby's gonna be stabbing you in the ass with a tranquilizer." Lucifer cocked his head to the side. "You need to calm down, kiddo. You're no fun to me if you're a drooling mess."
Sam looked at the devil confused, not sure what to make of him. He was making sense though. The memories were pulling him under and he had to find a way to stop before he fell apart. He didn't doubt they'd sedate him. What could he do though? He couldn't cut. Not now. Not ever. He'd put Dean through too much.
Lucifer rolled his eyes. "I can't believe I need to spell it out for you. Focus on the pain, Sammy. You know, your handiwork from last night? Feel it. Focus on it. You'll feel better if you do. Trust me."
Sam didn't want to admit it, but he was making sense—pain to stop the pain. It was just like how it started. Except now it was Lucifer handing him the idea. Sam knew it wouldn't have the same release, have the same feeling of control, but he was willing to try.
The room was beginning to spin. He was hyperventilating.
"Bobby!" Sam heard Dean yell.
He needed to make focus on the pain. He closed his eyes and focused on the throb of his side, trying to let it center him. Each pull and tug of the stitches as he took a breath, he welcomed the pain. He held on to it tightly and let it soothe him. His heart slowed, and he began to feel more in control. He opened his eyes to see Dean looking at him anxiously.
"That's it, breath," Dean soothed, rubbing circles on Sam's chest. "You're alright."
Lucifer walked over to the foot of the bed, eyebrows raised. "Well, are you?"
"I'm good." Sam looked past Dean at Lucifer. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me, Sam," Dean said. "I just gave you a panic attack."
Sam kept focusing on the pain as he looked at Lucifer. It had worked.
"See, what did I say?" Lucifer said. "I'll let you have your little alone time now. Watching Dean being all big brother and cuddles just makes me want to puke."
And then he as quickly as he came, he was gone, leaving Sam alone with Dean.
Heavy footsteps running down the hall drew Sam's attention. He looked toward the door. Bobby. He was breathing heavy and looking over same with a scrutinizing gaze.
"It's okay, Bobby," Dean said. "Sam almost fell out of bed. No worries. I got him back."
Sam looked at Dean. He could tell when his brother was lying, question was, who was he lying to? Bobby or him? There was something off about how Bobby looked at Sam. It was like he could see his secrets and it made him squirm in the bed.
"Well, if you boys are set. I'm gonna head back down and finish making lunch," Bobby said. The look he shared with Dean before leaving the room didn't go unnoticed.
Dean looked remorseful. "I'm sorry, Sam. I shouldn't have pushed."
Sam felt guilty, too. He knew he shouldn't have used pain to cope but it was so much easier to embrace it than face the pain of his past. Secretly, he didn't want to heal. He wanted the pain to stay so he could hold onto it and keep himself from being dragged away.
"It okay," Sam said, looking at Dean. "Can I ask you something?"
"Shoot, anything."
"Were you telling the truth earlier, did you mean what you said, that I don't make you sick?" Sam asked.
Dean drew a slow breath and looked Sam in the eyes. "Sam, I swear. It was not you."
Sam nodded, wanting to believe.
"Can I ask you something?" Dean asked.
"Yeah, sure."
Dean's eyes moved to look at the gauze on Sam's side and Sam tugged the blanket up, feeling exposed. Of course, Dean wanted to know about what happened in the bedroom. He probably blamed himself.
"Why … Was it me?" He gestured to Sam's side.
Sam sighed. He couldn't look at Dean's face. He didn't want to see his brother's guilt.
"I got overwhelmed … Everything crashed down … it got too much … And there was Lucifer," Sam spoke in broken fragments, just wanting the words out.
"Did Lucifer tell you to do it?" Dean asked calmly.
Sam glanced at him in time to see him swallow hard, like he was struggling to contain his emotions.
Sam turned his head, looking out the window. "He didn't, not this time."
"Does he tell you to often?" Dean sounded like he was choking on his words.
Sam shrugged. It wasn't quite like that. Sam wanted it, too. Lucifer might be the devil, he had tortured Sam, but the things he said made sense sometimes—like using pain to center himself. Dean had said something similar once. He should understand better than anyone. There was something about the way Lucifer spoke that soothed Sam. It was like he understood Sam in ways he didn't even understand himself.
Sam felt the bed shift and he looked to Dean. His face was serious and his mouth a hard line. He was looking at Sam with such gravity it unsettled him.
"You know he's not real, Sammy."
Sam thought for a moment. "How do you know?"
"I just do," Dean said. "Trust in me, Sam. Believe what I tell you, not him. You understand me?"
The sound of a faint lullaby being hummed caught Sam's attention and he looked towards the sound. Perched on the dresser was Lucifer, watching the exchange with his brother. "What's it gonna be, Sam? Him or me?" He hopped down. "Remember, when your brother sent you spiraling out of control earlier, who helped pull you back?"
Sam looked at his brother, then back at Lucifer.
"Sammy, do you see him right now?" Dean asked, looking around the room. "Dammit, Sam. What is he saying?"
"Nothing, just … He helped me, Dean."
Dean's face contorted in confusion. "What do you mean, he helped you?"
"Earlier, he told me to focus on the pain. He said it would it help, like the … cutting," he confessed, "and it did. It pulled me back from the brink."
Dean rubbed his forehead, stopping to pinch his brow. "Sam … I don't know what to say. This is all really fucked up."
"I'm sorry, Dean."
Lucifer began to pace the room, watching them quietly, looking almost protective of Sam.
Dean sighed. "It's okay, Sam. We'll figure this out. Just please, don't listen to him. Pain isn't the answer. Come to me. Let me help you."
"Okay, I'll try," Sam said. "He doesn't seem to like you much by the way."
"Perfect, he's not exactly on my Christmas list either," Dean got up and walked toward the door, pausing before stepping out. "I'm gonna go grab lunch for you. You okay for a minute alone?"
Sam waved him off. "I'm fine, Dean. I'll be alright."
"Good and no talking to the devil while I'm gone," Dean shook his head as he left the room. "Only a Winchester would ever need to say that and actually mean it."
