Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
A/N: I once again apologize for the delay. I started a new job, and I've been beyond exhausted from it. Hopefully, I can find some sort of rhythm that will allow me to update more frequently once again. Until then, I hope you will continue to enjoy the story.
Once again, if you are interested in a sister story after Desolation is completed that would follow Sam's side of the story from where he splits with Dean to being found by Dean and Cas, let me know. It is something that I would be willing to write.
If he could move Sam himself, he would've. But he can't, so he has to put up with Cas' help, and Cas' help comes with unwanted reassurances that he's doing the right thing. That this is what both Sam and Dean need, only in different ways. Some bullshit along the lines of Sam needing and Dean needing to be needed.
"It'll be easier than you think," Cas says.
"Oh, I'm sure," Dean says. "I've always wanted to be the caretaker for someone who is bedridden and unable to do as much as speak. That sounds so easy."
"Maybe not, but you've always wanted to be Sam's caretaker," Cas says. "You always have taken care of him."
"I did what I had to when we were growing up, because my father needed me to be a caretaker."
"You might believe that," Cas says. "But I felt your soul when I raised you from The Pit. I know what is written upon it."
"Yeah, well, you also thought I'd be the Righteous Man who'd end the Apocalypse, and that didn't happen."
"That's true. Don't you wonder who the Righteous Man ended up being?"
"Never crossed my mind," Dean says. "Does there have to be one?"
"To defeat Lucifer, yes."
Dean looks over at Chuck, who showed up apparently for the sole reason of being moral support, considering he hasn't helped them in any way yet. "I don't suppose you want to fill that part in for us," Dean says.
Chuck shakes his head. "I told you before, it's not my story to tell."
"Right," Dean says. "Of course, it isn't."
It isn't difficult to transport one of the beds from the quarantine cabin into Dean's cabin, but the shape and nature of the bed's components make it a cumbersome task. With each step he takes, the vice around Dean's stomach tightens. He isn't ready to be a caretaker again.
Not to Sam.
Not to a Sam who is so injured that he can't do the simplest tasks. He can't tell Dean what he needs, and Dean can't read him like he once could. What is he even supposed to eat? Can he chew and swallow okay?
Food… That's another beast in the post-Apocalyptic days. With winter coming quickly, he finds himself nervous once again about whether they'll have enough food to make it through to spring or not. Hunting and fishing are great supplements most of the year, but they try to grow as much as they can and preserve it.
Somehow, they always have enough, even if they have to scrape by until spring.
But he's not in charge of that anymore. He doesn't have to check in with the dining hall and make sure they have enough, or that no one is taking excess for no reason. He doesn't have to figure out how they'll find enough food to survive, because he's not the leader anymore. It's not his job anymore.
Those are Beth's concerns now. His concern is figuring out what the fuck Sam can eat, and then getting him to eat it. Of all the things for him to forget to ask David and Annette, why did it have to be one of the most important ones?
It doesn't take long to set up Dean's bedroom for two occupants, and staring at the extra bed makes it feel like it's always been there. He can't remember what his room looked like before adding the extra bed, it's when it's occupied that it will feel different, he tells himself.
"You'll be okay," Cas says, standing next to him.
"He's right, Dean," Chuck adds in. "It'll be easier than you think, and it's the best thing for both you and Sam. Plus, it's not like there isn't help available if you need it."
Dean grunts out a non-answer, if only to get them to leave him alone. He doesn't know why he's agreed to this arrangement, but he knows that it's too late to take it back.
"Now, we just need to get Sam here," Chuck says. "I guess it is a good thing that you brought that gurney back with you when you found him."
"It was Cas who lead the way there," Dean says.
"Maybe," Cas says, "but you didn't leave him behind. You could have, but you chose not to."
It wasn't a choice. No matter what happened, he couldn't have left Sam behind.
He tells himself it's because Sam was injured and helpless. That he thought he wouldn't make it long anyway in his condition.
He tells himself it's because he wouldn't leave anyone behind if he didn't have to. If he could avoid leaving them.
But… maybe there's something more in this case. Reasons that he's not ready to think about or admit. Reasons that are more than just the desire to know what happened to lead to the end of the world as they knew it.
Dean says, "Yeah, well, let's just get this over with."
Between the three of them (well, two of them considering Chuck intends to be nothing more than moral support throughout the moving process), it isn't tough to get Sam back onto the gurney. In fact, it's easier than Dean thinks it should be. Is Sam thinner than he was when they first brought him back?
He has to be, if Dean feels like he could lift Sam on his own if need be. Yet, it shouldn't be surprising to him. There isn't exactly an abundance of foods that Sam can eat to put some meat back on his bones.
The hardest part of moving seems to be its toll on Sam. Last time, Sam was too out of it to know what was going on around him. Sam was at a point where Dean wondered if he would ever wake up.
This time, he isn't. He doesn't make sounds, but Dean can see the lines of pain in his face as they shift him around. He can see Sam struggling to control his breathing.
"It'll be over in a second," Dean says.
Those are the only comforting words he can find to offer Sam, despite comforting Sam once being a specialty of his. Something that was second nature, once upon a time.
"It's just a nightmare, Sammy," Dean says.
Sam has his face pressed against Dean's chest, and he feels him shaking his head as his tears start to soak through the fabric. The motel room lets in an uncomfortably cold draft, but that's not the source of Sam's shivers. It's just a reminder that they're living a life that isn't meant for children their age. Or children of any age, if he thinks about it. They should be in a warm, safe home. Not a motel room with a door that doesn't properly lock and carpets that are sticky enough to make them wear shoes anytime they aren't lying in bed.
Dean rubs circles on his back, rocking back and forth. The truth is that seeing Sam this scared always leaves him panicking as to how to fix it, but he knows that he can never let the calm, strong facade he's created slip, because the truth is that he's just as scared as Sam.
This… this is why Dean doesn't want Sam to know about the supernatural. His nightmares are already so real—so vivid—that he can't imagine how much worse they would be if he found out how many living nightmares are out there. He can't imagine how haunted Sam's sleep might become.
"You're okay," Dean says, his voice much steadier than he feels. "It was just a nightmare. Nothing's going to get you, not while I'm around. You hear me, Sammy? I'm not gonna let anything get you. Never."
Because he knows. He knows about the world that Sam is in the dark about. He knows how to keep them both safe from things that shouldn't exist.
Sam's sobs die down into sniffles, and Dean just holds him close in the darkness, words of comfort pouring from his mouth. Long after Sam has fallen back asleep, Dean stays awake, waiting for the next nightmare to strike.
That was… a different time. It was a different Dean, and a different Sam. They couldn't go back to those days. They couldn't become those people again, whether they want to or not. That sort of innocence fled from their grasp long ago, and maybe they never really had it in the first place. Maybe it was all an illusion of innocence.
They pause for a moment once Sam is on the gurney. While his face is lined with pain, it fades as they allow him a minute to catch his breath again and rest. Seeing him like this only drives home how fragile he is these days.
And Dean can't help but think that this is just the beginning. He isn't equipped to provide the sort of care that Sam requires. Hell, no one is equipped to provide that much support, not without the medical technology they used to have.
"You ready for the trip to my cabin?" Dean asks.
Sam has a look in his eyes that Dean hasn't seen in a long, long time: his you-have-to-be-kidding-me-right-now look. Then, he blinks.
No use in putting off the inevitable, and once they're done, he can rest as much as he wants. Dean almost smiles, because it's the kind of thing he remembers Sam doing. Just getting unpleasant things over with as quickly as possible because he'll no longer have to think about it later. Rip the bandage off, don't bother trying to draw it out in hopes that it will hurt less.
"Well, this is the easy part," he says. "We're doing all the work."
And it wasn't all that tough on them, either. Pushing Sam on a gurney is fairly easy, and with Chuck and Cas on one end, and Dean on the other, they manage to get him down the stairs of the infirmary, and then up the stairs into Dean's cabin once they arrive.
Then, they shuffle Sam into the bed they made up for him in Dean's bedroom. He looks like he's in just as much pain as the first time, but the transition is quicker with how much more room they have going from gurney to bed instead of from bed to gurney.
Cas and Chuck take their leave, being obvious in their intention to force Dean to rebuild some semblance of a relationship with Sam.
And he finds himself alone with Sam, no idea as to what he should do next.
He sits on the edge of his own bed, all too aware of Sam staring at him. He takes a moment to wonder what Sam would say to him if he could speak.
Would he apologize for what he did? Does he even feel bad about it?
Would he tell Dean his story, or would he feel like Dean doesn't deserve answers for being an asshole to him? Would he be ashamed and hesitant to say what happened?
But he doesn't have the time to sit and think those questions through anymore, not when Sam is there and dependent upon him in ways he hasn't been in well over two decades.
He feels like a kid again, left to care for Sam when he's barely able to take care of himself.
"C'mon, Sammy, please stop crying," Dean says. "Please."
He shakes a toy in front of Sam, one that makes a rattling sound from inside its tummy, but the tears and the screaming don't stop. He tries to rock Sammy the way that he remembers Mom used to, but that doesn't help either, and Dean's nearly close to tears himself. He's not old enough to understand much about the world, but he's old enough to know that this situation is wrong. He's never the one to be left alone with Sam. He shouldn't be left alone with Sam, because he doesn't understand what he needs.
"Please, Sammy. I don't know what to do."
Dad is supposed to be there, but he shoved Sam into Dean's arms and said he'd be right back. He said that it was important and that he had to go, but Dean needs him now. Isn't that important? Isn't that more important?
Instead, he's alone and on the verge of being driven insane by the wailing of an inconsolable Sam, because he has no idea what Sam needs from him.
He sits on the bed and keeps rocking Sam, reaching for one of the soft blankets they picked up after everything that was in his nursery burned. He fumbles with it, trying to wrap it around Sam without dropping Sam in the process.
After he's haphazardly wrapped up, Sam's sobs die down into hiccups.
"You were just cold, weren't you?" Dean asks.
He should've thought of that earlier. They're well into winter now, and motel rooms aren't known for their warmth.
As Sam starts making small noises and saying half-words, too sleepy to form full words, Dean lets out a sob of relief. He did it. He figured out what Sam needed from him, and he got Sam to stop crying.
He did it on his own.
"I'm right here, Sammy," he says. "I'm always gonna be right here."
Sam falls asleep in his arms, and as tired as Dean is, he refuses to sleep until their dad comes home.
"I, uh, I'm kind of at a loss here," Dean says. "I really haven't taken care of anyone in a long time, and I don't even know what you can eat."
Sam continues staring, but doesn't seem to have any other response.
"I talked to David and Annette a bit before bringing you here, but it's one thing to hear what to do, and another thing to really do it."
Sam blinks once, but Dean thinks that it's more of a placating response. Everyone knows how much more difficult things are in practice as opposed to in theory.
Dean nods a few times, more to himself than at Sam.
Then, he rests his head in his hands, his elbows propping up his arms on his knees. He takes one deep breath, and another.
He really has no idea where to go from here, and he can't run away this time. He can't run and leave Sam in the care of someone else, because there is no one else there to care for him.
He's the only one there.
Dean finds himself awake in the middle of the night. He tried to sleep, but Sam's presence so nearby won't let him. He can't shake the thought that, if he falls asleep, he might wake up to a dead Sam because he needed something in the middle of the night and had no way to get it or wake up Dean to get it.
For someone practically immobile, Sam is surprisingly restless in his sleep. He moves enough to rustle the sheets.
For someone who doesn't make a sound when he's awake, Sam makes plenty of sound in his sleep. Moans and groans from deep within his throat. While they're unsettling, they let Dean know that Sam has the ability to make sound.
So, why the hell is he apparently incapable of making sound consciously?
Maybe it's a good thing that he's around Sam so much now, but he's finding more questions than answers, and isn't that always the case?
He runs his hands over his face and rolls over, telling himself that it's for the sake of finding a more comfortable position. Being able to see Sam has nothing to do with it.
He watches Sam toss his head from one side to the other, then push it back into his pillow while his chest rises. His breaths come in short, choked off gasps.
After a minute of witnessing Sam writhe in pain stemming from his nightmares (which, if he's being honest, are worse than he remembers), he drags himself out of bed. He hunts through the mess of his cabin until he finds a canteen with some water still in it (making a mental note to go and refill them in the morning) and a rag that isn't too dirty (and yes, he should probably take the time to do some washing, but washboards are a pain in the ass and the river is freaking cold).
He lights a few of the candles in his bedroom, Sam still lost in nightmares and oblivious to Dean's movement around him. It's just another reminder that this isn't the same Sam he used to know. The old Sam would've been up and alert at the slightest change around him, like a hunter should.
This Sam is helpless and vulnerable, not safe from even his own mind. How did he get this way? What happened during the years they've spent apart?
He shakes Sam's left shoulder, the unburnt one, and his left eye snaps open. The right one opens slower, and never fully.
Dean removes his hand. "You were having a nightmare."
Sam blinks once. Yes, he was having a nightmare. Thanks for noticing, Dean.
Dean splashes some water from the canteen onto the rag and wipes Sam's face with it, being careful that he doesn't apply too much pressure to the burn scars (and he notes that there doesn't seem to be sweat on the right side, unlike the left side). Sam watches him, and it hurts Dean to be able to read the surprise and confusion in his eyes.
He wasn't kidding when he said that he doesn't believe Dean cares about him anymore, but why would he say he wants to live with Dean instead of someone else if that's the case?
"You actually made sounds while you slept. Just, like, groans and whatever, but maybe that means you'll be able to talk someday."
Sam doesn't have a response to that.
It doesn't take long to wipe Sam's face with the rag, but Dean lingers at the task, a sense of nostalgia encompassing him. It's almost difficult to remember why he's been so cold to Sam since they found him when he looks so much like the lost, hurting child Dean raised. When he looks so much like a young, feverish Sam who's home sick from school, sweating and shivering at the same time.
"Do you have nightmares every night?"
Sam blinks twice, and Dean finds that there's a large amount of unexpected relief that his brother isn't plagued this badly every night.
"Most nights?"
Sam blinks once. Not every night, but most nights.
Dean tosses the canteen and rag to the side; it's not like his cabin is the pinnacle of organization anyway. It's the end of the world, who the fuck cares if his things are in order or not?
"You, uh, plan on trying to go back to sleep?"
Sam blinks twice, but what else can he really do in his current state? It's not like Dean can prop him in front of a TV while he rides out an illness like he could when they were kids. Hell, he can't even have a radio playing because there aren't any stations broadcasting. At least, there aren't any nearby stations broadcasting.
He could read to Sam, but that doesn't sound like it would be a great replacement. He isn't like Sam. He doesn't have the patience to read something for the sake of reading, not researching.
There's not much entertainment for Sam except for… except for talking to him.
Dean sits back down on the edge of his own bed, all too aware of Sam watching him. He leaves the candles lit, letting them illuminate the room with their soft glow.
"You know, usually my room only looks this nice when I want to impress a woman," Dean says. He smirks for only a second, the lighthearted joke falling flat even for his taste. "But I'm really not like that anymore. More important things to worry about."
Sam blinks once, and Dean misses his voice more with each non-verbal response. They might not have always been on the best terms with each other, but at least before the Apocalypse they could talk things out. Try to find some sort of understanding.
Still, he sees a lot of the Sam he remembers in the immobile Sam on the bed. He may be different in just as many days, but he isn't unrecognizable.
Dean isn't sure if that makes the situation easier, though.
"Sorry. I've never been great at the small talk thing."
Dean runs a hand down his face, then through his hair, wondering how many wrinkles he's managed to accumulate since him and Sam went their separate ways. Sam didn't age while possessed, but he didn't exactly get away unscathed.
"You mind if I just skip the small talk and ask you a bit about what happened to cause all of… this?"
Sam blinks twice, but Dean wonders if he would say he didn't mind even if he did. That's the kind of thing that Sam does when he feels like he's walking on thin ice with someone. He says whatever he thinks they want to hear.
"Well, you said you felt like you didn't have a choice when you said 'yes' to Lucifer. Was it a threat or something?"
One blink. A threat.
"He threatened you to allow him to possess you?"
Sam blinks once, then, after a pause, he blinks twice. Yes, but no?
"What? What does that mean? It was a threat, but he didn't threaten you?"
One blink.
"Then, who the hell did he threaten?"
Who could Lucifer threaten to make Sam agree to end the fucking world?
It's not a question that Sam can really answer. It requires a little more than a 'yes' or a 'no'.
But, despite that, he gets a clear answer through to Dean by reaching across the space between their beds and loosely gripping Dean's forearm with his left hand.
He didn't end the world for himself.
He ended it for Dean.
A/N: Please leave a review!