Author notes: Last, extra-long chapter before hiatus. :) Enjoy.
Chapter Eleven
To be honest, Sam had no idea what the fuck was going on.
Dean went from hot to cold, from caring for Sam during his sickness to staying—hiding, part of him whispered—in his room, from being so angry that Sam knew he was about to be beaten, to just…not.
Dean screamed at him, but told him to eat. Dean left him, but came back and slept beside him. Dean brought him to a restaurant and seemed thoroughly miserable, then brought him to a library. Surrounded by the thousands of books, the smell of paper and the safety of quiet, Sam had forgotten to watch Dean—what was coming next? He had to be prepared—and when he realized what he had done and glanced back, Dean had been smiling faintly, as though Sam's happiness was contagious. As though he were happy forhim.
Sam was almost painfully confused, but as the day passed and nothing bad happened, he was willing to cautiously classify this as better. He and Dean ate together, spent time together after dinner, and Dean seemed more…open. Accepting.
Sam found himself more than once thinking about Dean sprawled on top of him on the couch, being able to feel—or at least imagine—Dean's heartbeat against Sam's spine. Sam almost hoped that would happen again, especially when they sat on the couch, especially when Dean came close enough to touch. But it didn't. Dean stopped at the edge of the living room to tell him goodnight, and for a moment he hesitated, as Sam sat with his eyes on the carpet, hoping—but then Dean disappeared down the hall.
Sam feared the resignation he caught in Dean's face sometimes—he could remember that look in Becca's eyes, and he was beginning to think that it had meant horrible things he couldn't have imagined then—but at least he had Dean near again, and he had to count that as better.
He just hoped that this once, it wouldn't get worse again.
When Dean woke up the next morning, he had a plan.
Part of him chafed at it, sure that it was the kind of concession that only weak bastards and cowards would make, giving into pressures from beyond them. He hated even considering playing by the rules of Freak Camp and the sonsofbitches who had fucked Sam up in the first place. The very last thing he wanted to do was surrender to what they had done, tacitly say, "Yeah, you fucked Sam up and I'm okay with that."
He hated it. But at the same time, he knew that he was balancing on a thin edge and any misstep would slice into him like the sharpest knife. Even Dean could tell that when a guy threatened to throw a defenseless trauma victim out of the house, got wasted, and then collapsed on that very same survivor, he wasn't exactly in the sanest headspace. This was no game, but maybe he and Sam needed some ground rules, anyway, for both their sakes.
If anything would make it easier, he had to do it. He wasn't sure he could hold on if this whole fucked-up situation with Sam got any worse.
They had breakfast and chilled on the couch like usual. Sam read, Dean pretended to watch TV, and then a little before noon, Dean got up.
"Hey, Sam, I want to talk with you about something."
Sam closed his book carefully. "Yes, Dean?"
"Let's…go to the table. I'll make hot chocolate."
Right before lunch was the perfect time. Dean had a vague conviction that food fixed things, so if this went badly, he would make sandwiches. But a little drinkable chocolate beforehand couldn't hurt either.
It took longer to get the chocolate together than he had expected. Probably he was stalling. He just really didn't want to do this—but at the same time, he very badly wanted it to work.
When Sam was seated at the table with a cup of hot cocoa piled high with marshmallows—warm, but not actually hot, Dean had made that mistake only once, when Sam just drankit—Dean sat across from him and looked at him. Sam's eyes were locked somewhere in the middle of the table.
"I've been having a really tough time with this whole thing, in case you haven't noticed, Sam," Dean began, ignoring the way Sam's arms tensed and the marshmallows shook on top of his cocoa. "And I think we've got to change some things."
Sam seemed to finally notice his own shaking hand and let go of the mug, fast, sloshing liquid over the top. "I'm s-sorry," he said, looking anywhere but at Dean. "L-let me go, wipe it up, I'm sorry—"
When Sam would have bolted for a rag, Dean stopped him by grabbing his wrist and pulling him back into his chair. It was a loose hold, a toddler could have broken it easily, but Sam dropped like he'd reached the end of a chain, and Dean once again had to fight the slow, smoldering desire—he'd thought it was gone, but even a little twitch could bring it right back to the surface—to hit something until everything that had ever hurt Sam was dust and bones.
"I'm going to lay down some rules," Dean said, keeping his voice even, non-threatening. "And I want you to do the best you can to follow them, okay?"
Sam nodded, almost frantically, and then took a deep breath and became almost unnaturally still. Dean could practically seehim pulling himself together. And that was exactly why they needed rules: Sam could search for all the inner peace he needed, but he should not believe that he needed it to survive what was coming. Dean would protect him no matter what. And Sam had to know that that meant Dean would stop himself, too.
Sam wished he could stop being afraid. He really did, because the more he acted like he had been taught, the more he tried to be cautious—figure out what Dean wanted, offer him anything—the more Dean retreated from him, the less he touched him, the more Sam saw the blind rage in his eyes—or worse, the dull hopelessness—that threatened to rip away any shred of comfort he had gained.
But Rules—he could do Rules. He could do anything Dean needed him to do, anything he wanted, if Dean would just tell him what it was.
If Dean told him to drop to his knees, make him dinner, cut himself open on one of the small knives, Sam could do that. He was ready, every moment of every day for anything Dean wanted. And now, now, if he was finally laying out his expectations, well, Sam was more than ready to listen, remember, repeat back and obey.
At least that's what he told himself as he folded his hands over the table to hide their shaking.
"Rule one," Dean said. "Always look me in the eye. Sam, I want you to look at me, not your feet."
Sam forced his eyes to Dean's. See. He could listen. He could obey. Even though every instinct hardwired into his body screamed for him to drop the gaze and his heart rate doubled just from holding eye contact this long.
"Rule two: you can only apologize once a day. Do not say you are sorry for everything, Sam, because it's not your fault, and I don't blame you." Dean watched him steadily. Sam didn't have the foggiest idea what his reaction was supposed to be, but he had to smother the desire to apologize, and the equally crazy instinct to laugh hysterically. He wished Dean would stop. These rules didn't make sense, and though he was so goodat following commands to the letter, he already had the awful premonition that these would be impossible.
But Dean continued. "Rule three: if someone is hurting you—and I mean in any way, Sam—you slug the bastard. I don't care if they look at you funny, or snort or something, you hit them hard until they stop, Sam, even if it's me."
"Dean! That's not—" Sam bit it off. One did not fight Rules. One got hurt if one fought the Rules. But these Rules were all wrong, all messed up, and even though he knew that Dean meant them, Sam could not imagine hitting Dean. It was hard to imagine hitting any real, but he couldn't even try to imagine hitting Dean without wanting to curl up into a little ball. He brought his hands up over his eyes, which already broke Rule One. Fuck fuck fuck, this was falling apart already.
Dean caught his wrists, brought his hands down, waited until he could force himself, slowly, to look back up. "But the most important Rule, Sam," Dean said, speaking so softly Sam had to control his breathing just to hear him through the pounding in his ears. "The most important Rule is that you have to tell me what you want. And when you find something you don't like, you have to say 'no,' you have to say 'stop.' If I'm doing it, I'll stop, Sam. If someone else is, I'll stop them. But you have to tell me what you want, what you don't want, because if I hurt you because you didn't tell me what was going wrong, I would never forgive myself. Sam, look at me. Do you believe me when I say this?"
Sam stared at Dean, and his face showed nothing but sincerity and earnest hope.
Dean didn't want him hurt, in any way. Sam could hurt Dean, just by letting the pain slide by like he always had before. This was so different—so wrong, a small voice said, why should he care about a monster?—but it wasn't bad. It could be...it could be something that Sam couldn't have imagined, something so much better, with four simple Rules.
He nodded.
Instantly, Dean looked happier, steadier, but he kept his grip on Sam's arms. "Good. I'm glad. But there's one more thing you need to remember. I really want you to follow these Rules, but I also want you to know that no matter how many times you break them...nothing is going to happen to you. Absolutely nothing. I won't be angry, hurt you, or kick you out. Got it?"
Nowas on the tip of Sam's tongue. That didn't make any sense whatsoever, because part of Rules was Punishment—inevitably swift and agonizing—whenever the Rules were broken. But he looked at Dean, thinking of how the structure of his world had been turned upside down since Dean had taken him away. How good life had been, when it wasn't falling apart. Sam chose to believe him.
"Yes, Dean," he said, and breathed in the light of Dean's smile, the relaxing of Dean's hands on his wrists. This was going to be damned hard, but Sam was going to try.
A couple hours after Sam and Dean split two large pizzas (meat lovers and veggie, for the vitamins and protein) for lunch, Bobby called.
Dean almost went for the gun he wasn't wearing—startling Sam, tucked on the other side of the couch with his feet almost touching Dean's—when the cellphone started wailing in his pocket. Dean rested an automatic, reassuring hand on Sam's shoulder while he dug for the stupid thing. He didn't know why he even had it on him, when it only rang once in a blue moon and nearly gave him a heart attack when it did.
He held his breath instinctively until he saw Bobby's name on the screen, then stood up and flicked it open, walking around the coffee table. "Hey Bobby, what's up?"
"Kid. Just making sure you're holding it together."
Dean cleared his throat, not sure if he wanted to hang out awkwardly in the middle of the living room for this conversation. Would stepping out onto the landing give Sam the wrong impression? "No, everything's better. Loads. We're doing...okay." I'm not drunk and shouting at Sam anymore, at least.
"Good. Glad to hear it." Bobby sounded as matter of fact as he would checking on the aftermath of any hunt. But he hadn't actually gotten any new information about how it had wrapped up, and that made Dean nervous about what was coming. "Hey, I wanted to give you a heads-up: you're going to be getting a package from me in the mail soon. Don't do something stupid like light it on fire or some other fool thing."
Dean huffed. "C'mon, Bobby, you know I'm totally professional about lighting shit on fire. What is it?"
"It's a book," Bobby said, meaningfully. "Which is why I'm telling you not to use it for tinder. I want you to read it, Dean, and when you're done, read it again."
"Huh." Dean glanced over at Sam, still holding the book in his lap but watching him from under his bangs. "Do I get any hints?"
Bobby harrumphed evasively. "It could help. Maybe. I dunno. It's not like there's a damn instruction manual for taking care of a kid that's been raised in that hellhole, but I did my best. So you're going to readit and think about what you've read and if you start falling to pieces again, you damn well call me. And not at three a.m. this time. Got it?"
For a minute, Dean held the phone to his ear in silence. Sam was still watching, and Dean had to turn away slightly, not sure how anyone would interpret the relief on his face. "Thanks, Bobby. I appreciate it."
"Yeah, well, don't nominate me for sainthood yet. Damn book might be no more useful than the paper it's printed on. And it's that thin modern plasticized stuff that don't burn for shit, too, so that might not be much."
Dean leaned against the kitchen doorway. "Thanks anyway, Bobby. For thinking about us."
"Yeah. Whatever you need, kid."
Dean heard the click, and Bobby was gone.
Before, there had been no Rules. Now there were Rules. Though they bore no resemblance to any Rules Sam had ever known before—as alien as cold fire, liquid bullets and a weak Director—they were nevertheless clear, concrete instructions formed with unambiguous, comprehensible words. Apparent impossibility did not matter. Sam had been given orders that seemed impossible before, and had obeyed them anyway, with varying level of success. For the ones he had failed, he had been given sufficient motivation to do better.
After what seemed like weeks of struggling through a depthless ocean, gradually losing his sense of up, down, and survival, Sam's feet had found bottom, and he could breathe and keep his head above water. Dean had, at last, told Sam explicitly what he had to do to please him, and regardless of whether or not that would be easy, how long it might take him to learn or what might happen in the meantime, Sam felt stable for the very first time in the real world.
He recited the four Rules constantly in his head, running over Dean's exact phrasing until he could repeat each Rule backwards and forwards at a moment's notice. Dean had yet to test if he had been listening, if he had remembered, but that was unimportant. Sam had Rules now, and he had to be prepared.
Sam had decided almost immediately that Rule Two would be the easiest. Despite the urge to tell Dean how very, very sorry he was every time he fucked up—he could do better if Dean would be patient and give him another chance—Sam had forced himself to be silent under far more strenuous circumstances, so he should be able to control himself now, especially since Dean had promised he would not, no matter what, put Sam back in FREACS.
Rule One wouldn't be much harder, despite the overwhelming compulsion to drop to his knees that he felt every time he met Dean's gaze for more than a second. Sam could overcome it. He had done things as difficult before, with less forgiveness. He wouldovercome it.
Rules Three and Four were much, much harder to parse. Sam understood the individual words, but he couldn't visualize situations in which these Rules would come into play.
For example, if he was being hurt—in any way, Dean had said—Sam was supposed to hit them hard until they stop. Barring any alternate definitions of "hit them hard," Sam had to take that to mean he should initiate a literal, physical attack. So there were certain times—obvious to Dean because he knew his way around the real world—when Sam was supposed to respond with violence.
If Dean had been referring to situations with monsters, the Rule was perfectly applicable, but almost unnecessary. Dean had told Sam that he didn't want him hurting himself, and as far as Sam was concerned, letting another freak get the better of him would be about the same as clawing up his own arms. The first freak that touched him would get his hand—or the nearest vulnerable body part—broken.
But Dean couldn't have meant him to use force on reals, and absolutely not against hunters, because the repercussions—Sam shuddered hard, involuntarily, even considering them. Even more baffling, Dean had said you hit them hard...even me, which was absolutely nonsensical, and not just because Dean had never hurt Sam, even when he shook him, but because he was Dean.
Dean had been serious about the Rule, though, or he wouldn't have made it, so Sam took it seriously. He thought about it a lot, running scenarios in his head. That night, after his shower, he struggled to imagine himself obeying: sluggingsomeone, any real, because of the way they looked at him—and his chest contracted, painfully, terrifying familiar, until he leaned against the door and forced his mind blank, taking slow deep breaths.
He had done so many dirty, disgusting things, but he had been able to do them because he was a freak and those were the things freaks did. But if he—struck back—at anyone but another monster...
It didn't make sense, and it terrified him every time he thought too hard, but Dean had made the Rule, and it wasn't for Sam to question it or its consequences. Consequences were irrelevant, obedience was imperative. He still feared he wouldn't recognize the situations Dean had in mind, that he would disobey the first time because he hadn't been prepared, but he had to trust Dean here, too, that he had meant the last caveat, to any degree. And that was almost as impossible to imagine: how could nothinghappen, no retribution, after a broken Rule?
Rule Four was just as difficult, though it didn't scare Sam quite as much, because it didn't demand any aggressive acts. It demanded words, yes, words that would not be easy to voice, but he didn't see how Dean would know for certain if Sam was breaking it. Yes, sometimes he gave himself away—with noises he couldn't prevent and defensive motions he should have broken himself of years ago—but Dean had never liked those anyway.
The introduction of Rules had him reeling, obsessed with etching every word of the Rules into his psyche and parsing every word to make sure he understood. For the first time since leaving Freak Camp, he was once again balanced on the—now even thinner—knifepoint of behavioral requirements and expectations, and faced with the possibility of failing to meet the standards Dean had given him. But for now, at least, he only had to focus on the first two Rules (meet Dean's eyes, and don't apologize, even for all the times you forget and look down) and keep the other two in mind.
And every hour that Dean didn't reprimand him for his failings, didn't tell him to sit at the table while he got out his knives, it got easier. First of all, because this was obedience, and Sam could overcome a great deal of instinct with that excuse. But secondly, every time he held Dean's gaze a little longer, choked off another apology, Dean smiled a little wider, relaxed a little more.
Clearly he was doing what Dean wanted, making him happier, and for now that was enough. He didn't have to worry about the harder Rules yet. That would come later.
Dean liked how dinner had gone. There had been a tense moment when Sam dropped a fork while he was setting the table—he'd frozen like a rabbit about to bolt, before letting out a shaky breath, picking it up, and returning to the kitchen to replace it with a new fork—but otherwise it had been good.
Dean had made chicken cordon bleu—from a box again, but, sue him, Dean's top skills weren't in the kitchen—and the conversation had moved along steadily from Dean laboriously piecing together Sam's favorite parts of his latest book using the most innocuous questions he could think of, to Dean recounting his last major pool hustle. It had involved three redneck idiots, their blond bombshell (and much smarter) sister, a ferret and two pigs, and by the end of the story Sam was smiling a little over his glass.
When Dean polished off the last piece of oozing cheese, Sam got up, that same half-smile lingering on his lips. "Can I do the dishes?"
"I'd argue that it's my turn, as you set the table too, but go for it," Dean said. "Though if you need help, just say. It's not like I actually cooked or anything."
Dean felt lazy making—letting?—Sam do all the work, but at the same time Sam looked happier, steadier when he was doing something. Dean had to remember that he needed things—rules they both lived by, assurances that Sam was twitching just because he was twitching and not because Dean was hurting him—but Sam had needs, too. And if Sam wanted to set tables, and clean, and cater, well, Dean could live with that every once in a while. Granted, it was easier too to sit there with a couple beers and a decent dinner in him.
Outside, a car door slammed, followed by a couple muted adult voices along with the high piping of a little girl. Dean guessed it was the family that lived under them; he'd seen the parents several times since he'd moved in, though he hadn't done much more than nod and flash a smile on his way out. They were a young couple with a yappy dog and a pink-cheeked, curly blond-haired toddler, and they looked about as apple-pie civilian as you could get. Maybe sometime, when Sam was more comfortable (and that would be when, not if, though that might take months or more), he and Dean could introduce themselves. It might help Sam to meet people who treated him decent, see that they weren't afraid and thought of him as nothing more threatening than a shy kid.
The family must have just reached their front door when the mutt started barking, and the girl greeted him with an earsplitting shriek of joy.
A second later, Dean heard the unmistakable smash of glass in the kitchen, and he leaped up and hurtled around the corner.
The glass had shattered around Sam's feet. It had probably just slipped from his hand. No blood, and Sam was wearing shoes. He'd be able to walk out off the tile without cutting his feet so Dean could sweep up the glass.
It was okay. Everything was fine—an adrenaline kick, but manageable—until Dean looked up and saw the pallor of Sam's face. His eyes were wide, horrified, staring blankly at the shards, and he didn't notice Dean standing there for a long moment, and when he did, he flinched away with a gasp.
"I'm s—" he started, and then bit off the word. Dean saw a shudder race through him, and Sam shook his head. "I'm sssss—" He gasped, fighting for breath, shaking so violently the cupboard door shuddered against him. He made another low noise, part hiss, part moan, and practically caved on himself.
I'm sorry. Sam was trying desperately to follow the rule. Dean, feeling sick and horrified himself, caught him before Sam's knees hit the floor.
"It's okay, Sam, you're fine, I'm fine. It's just a glass, you'll be fine. Step over the glass, we're going to go to the living room. Big steps, no glass shards, okay?"
Sam was warm and shaking in his arms. Distantly, Dean wished they had, magically or something, gotten beyond these breakdowns. Because every time Sam collapsed in his arms, it ripped his heart apart again just when he had thought it was getting better—or maybe that he couldn't feel as much.
They didn't make it to the couch. Dean got Sam into a chair and pulled another one close to him.
"Sam, Sam, breathe. It's okay. Sam, please, it's okay."
Sam was still making that low keening sound, cutting off the apology fighting to get out, the panic overwhelming him.
Dean knew that he should keep his hands off, shouldn't get that close—too much temptation—but he grabbed Sam's arm, rubbed at his shoulder, anything to stop that horrible, pain-filled noise.
"It's okay, Sam, you can say it, it's okay." Dean pulled him into a hug, drew his head in close. Fuck it, he had to, afraid otherwise Sam would shake himself apart. "Say it, Sam!"
"I'm s-s-sorry," Sam gasped, and buried his face in Dean's neck. "I'm….rules…Dean." He took a desperate, shaky breath, and Dean could hear the apology in his name, the desperation. And because he had been at that same point only a few days ago, he could hear the despair here, too. "Dean."
"No, Sam, it's okay." Very daring, Dean stroked his hair. How long had it been since he had touched Sam this easily? Just a few days? And he had missed this so very badly. "I asked you to. You don't have to apologize, there is absolutely nothing you have to apologize for, but it's okay that you did. These rules aren't supposed to hurt, Sam."
Sam made a little choking noise that seemed almost like a laugh. "Rules," he whispered, but slowly—far too fucking slowly for Dean's peace of mind—his shudders subsided.
When Sam was calm and still in his arms, Dean moved himself away and looked at him. Sam wasn't looking him in the eye, but he wasn't looking at anything in particular. It seemed almost like he was trying to put himself back together, and Dean could understand that taking some time.
"You okay?" Dean asked.
Sam jerked his head toward the kitchen. "Glass?"
Dean waved his hand dismissively. "Cheap. We've got five more. I'll clean it up." Sam flinched, and Dean rested his hand on his arm again. Dean didn't know if Sam was afraid or found the contact reassuring, but he knew which one he was hoping for. "Wecan clean it up, Sam. If you want."
Sam nodded, and then visibly gathered strength. His voice, when he spoke, was even quieter and more hesitant. "Girl?"
"Um." Dean blinked. "Girl?"
Sam twitched all over, and ducked his head. "The scream…th-the girl. Never…never mind."
Realization dawned slowly. "I don't…I don't think that was anything, Sam. I can check if you want." Dean half stood before Sam shook his head, and he lowered himself into the chair again.
They sat together for a long time, and then Dean got the broom and swept up the glass. Sam held the garbage bag open for the shards and wiped down the counter afterward.
They were doing okay, Dean thought. Even if episodes like that had to happen, they were learning to rebound.
The next morning dawned gray and drizzly, but Dean felt unnaturally cheery. Yeah, things had gotten precariously close to the edge again last night, but they were up, eating Lucky Charms, and the day looked manageable.
They spent the morning watching TV, reading, and playing rummy. By lunch, between Sam's silence and the rain, Dean had way more energy than options. He dampened some of it by making grilled cheese sandwiches and, while they ate, bombarding Sam with things they could do around Boulder when he was feeling better.
But after half an hour of talking about hiking, opera, rock climbing, butterfly pavilions, and baseball (spending at least ten of those minutes comparing the advantages of the history museum over a local meadery—"I mean, one place you learn history, the other one you get to drink it, Beowulf-style!")—he started noticing a trend.
He would mention a place, and Sam would say, "That sounds good, Dean." He'd mention another, and Sam would agree that too was wonderful. He'd try to wheedle an opinion out of him and get a mild preference—boating briefly gained a narrow margin—before it reversed completely a couple minutes later. Sometimes Dean could tell that Sam really would rather go hiking than shopping in the closest mega mall, but if he had just been going by his Yes, Deans and that sounds wonderfuls, they would be signed up for sky diving and ballroom dancing by the end of the week.
At last, Dean sighed. "Sam." He leaned forward, narrowly avoiding the remains of lunch with his elbow. The frozen french fries had turned out a little soggy, but Sam still seemed to have enjoyed them. "I'm going to add another rule."
Sam froze, the last quarter of his grilled cheese sandwich raised to his lips. He put it down and hastily wiped his fingers on his napkin. "Yes, Dean?"
Dean met his eyes, and felt so damn proud when Sam didn't drop his. They didn't even waver as much as they had yesterday. "Every day, I want you to say 'no' to me at least once."
Sam paled and ducked his head. He tucked his hands beneath the table, but Dean knew they were probably shaking.
"Sam. You know I wouldn't ask this if I didn't think you could do it." Dean waited, but Sam continued breathing shakily with his eyes down. Dean took a jagged breath himself and kept his hand gripped around the edge of the table. Maybe Sam wouldn't notice. Ha. "You never say no, Sam. And it's really important to me that you tell me what makes you unhappy, uncomfortable, or, hell, Sam, even if you would rather do one thing instead of another. I'm not going to ask you to tell me where to shove it—though if you want to, Sam, go for it—I just want one little word, once a day. I promise, Sam, I'll make it really easy. Look." Dean loosened the top of the salt shaker and extended it over Sam's plate and the piece of sandwich he'd put down. "Sam, should I dump this entire shaker of salt over your sandwich?"
Sam stared at him, visibly shaking now. Dean could see things he didn't want to see fighting it out in Sam's head. "If you…n-no. No." He shook his head violently and shrank on himself.
Dean's throat tightened. There it was once again, proof—as though he needed more—of the number they had done on Sam. Dean had asked Sam to say no, had given him a perfect opportunity, his intention couldn't be more obvious, and Sam was still shaking like he had run a mile all-out.
Dean put down the salt and reached over to draw Sam's hand from beneath the table. "That's good, Sam. I won't. Thank you."
Sam's hand clenched his, shaking as much as Dean had thought, but after a few seconds of Dean's soft, reassuring voice, Sam relaxed, and Dean felt something untwist in his gut.
Dean wanted to kiss that hand (and Sam's trembling mouth), but he settled for smiling and squeezing Sam's fingers before letting go. "See, Sam. Easy. One day at a time."
Sam gasped, and it was almost a laugh, but much closer to a sob.
After dishes were put away, and Sam was back on the couch with a book, Dean went for a run. He didn't mind a little rain.
The package was waiting when he came back from his run. He slipped back to his bedroom to open it, just in case. Bobby's description had been vague to the point of worrying, and he had decided that anything that made him nervous he shouldn't be opening in front of Sam.
But when he pulled off the plain brown wrapping, it was just, as advertised, a book. A good-sized book with thin pages and medium print. Recovering the Survivors: A Practical Guide to Handling Post-Traumatic Stress and Trauma-Related Problems. Dean skimmed the table of contents and felt a coil of anxiety relax for the first time. He didn't know where Bobby had found it, but even realizing that someone else had dealt with these problems, that someone else had thought about how to solve them, made him feel better.
He thought briefly about covering the book the way he had been required to wrap his textbooks. Bobby had sent plenty of extra paper with the book. But, really, he knew that it was a waste of the paper. Sam wasn't going to pry, and if he did, so what? This was supposed to help him, too. They didn't need secrets.
Dean read the book once, carefully, and then, mindful of Bobby's instructions, again. The first time took him a day and a half. He read nonstop for hours, focusing like when he researched for a case, barely aware of how Sam kept peeking at him over his own book. Sam seemed concerned at Dean's radical behavior change, and kept watching him during meals like he thought Dean was going to shake him again, or leave. When it finally clicked for Dean just how much Sam's anxiety was ramping up again—when, through dinner conversation, Sam could barely force more than a couple words out through the stutter that had been hardly noticable the day before—he made a special effort to smile, to squeeze his hand, and to take a break to play cards again, dragging his mind out of the book and back to the here and now.
Sam didn't look completely reassured, but he ate better and seemed less nervous. Dean, gaining insight with every page, counted that as a win.
The second reading took three days, and he had to stop often, dropping the book in his bedroom and taking grueling runs around the block, once running all the way to the park just so he could go up and down the killer stairs Sam had fallen down. He needed the adrenaline, the extra pump of his heart to give his brain space to work. He felt compelled to relive every hour of the last four weeks and see how they slotted into place with Sam's conditions. He had to know, down to the last detail, what he had done wrong, and how he could avoid making those mistakes again.
Of course not everything lined up perfectly. The book itself said that each case was different, but a lot of Sam's behaviors were just a little different from the textbook cases, and other parts were completely missing.
Rage, for example. It was supposed to be a primary response, outbursts and irritation a normal outlet for the survivor's past and current helplessness, but Sam didn't display that, not even a flicker.
Then again, other things were so word-for-word exact it sent chills down Dean's spine. Hell, the book even mentioned breakdowns in grocery stores. More than once he ended up swearing at himself, pacing his bedroom and raging—if Sam didn't have anger, Dean certainly did, and sometimes he wondered if he should be more concerned about that—at all the catastrophes they could have avoided if Dean had done a little research on this shit during those six months he kicked his heels waiting for Sam to be released...
But he hadn't known, couldn't have predicted this. Not even Bobby had suggested it then, and Dean suspected he knew more than he was letting on. But there was no use looking back: what he had to do now was take what he knew, apply it, and hope like hell he hadn't messed Sam up too bad already.
No, he wasn't going to think that way. From here on out, it was going to be positive thoughts, all the time, because Dean had scraped all his pride away when he hit rock-bottom, and now he was ready to take every bit of professional advice he could get. Sam was going to get better, Dean wasgoing to get his shit together, and they would be okay. One day at a time.
Two whole chapters dealt with physical contact and how crucial it was to trauma victims. Dean read plenty of warnings about how it could set them off, trigger negative reactions, and send victims spiraling to the worst places in their head, especially when the contact was unexpected or undesired.
But, conversely, there was a lot about the effects of touch deprivation, particularly on kids. The book said that sometimes touch, the good kind, could be vital for someone recovering from trauma. "Good touch" had to be from someone the victim trusted, and could only happen in a safe, consensual environment. No pushing and no strangers.
Dean had broken that rule often enough he could throw up thinking about it, but it was no good looking back. They had restarted, were on a better track now, and he could tellSam was feeling better with rules to obey, even when the application of them backfired horribly.
He didn't want to automatically consider himself someone Sam trusted—not while the image of Sam pulling away from him was seared into his brain—but he couldn't forget, either, all the other times the perpetual tension and fear in Sam eased when Dean took his hand or had pulled him close. The time Sam had said, "Don't go," and reachedfor him. Dean couldn't forget those moments, because they were all that had kept him going last week.
Bobby had told him, too. He trusts you. You're the only one. Maybe so, and if he was—well, too late to undo the lines he'd crossed before, but he could (had to) repair some of the damage.
When he sat down on the couch next to Sam that night, he didn't crowd him, but he didn't force a foot and a half between them as he had the week before. Sam looked up, eyes wide, and Dean could almost believe he was more startled than afraid. At least Sam kept his eyes on Dean's now, and he hadn't immediately angled his body away or drawn in on himself.
"Hey, Sam," Dean said, placing his hands on his own knees. "There's something I should talk to you about."
Sam drew in a breath, almost inaudibly. "About the—rules?"
"No—well, yeah, sorta. About part of one." The intensity of Sam's gaze was a byproduct he hadn't expected of thatrule. He could feel it on the verge of unnerving, reminding him how seriously Sam took his words, how careful Dean had to be now. Dean had always thought himself a pretty smooth talker, but he was nowhere near smart enough for now, when Sam's life and well-being hung in the balance.
Dean looked troubled. Not as closed-off and unhappy as he had recently, but more weighed down than before the package had arrived. Sam didn't know exactly what it was, though he assumed it was the book Dean had been reading the last few days. It wasn't any of Sam's business, of course, and he would never so much as spy on the cover without Dean's permission, but it made him nervous. He tried very hard not to think of what it might be, of all the possible objects and instructions Hunter Singer could have sent Dean. Dean had said Bobby was a good old friend, an excellent hunter, and Sam could vaguely remember seeing him once or twice around camp—always moving toward Special Research or Administration—and only once in an interrogation room. Even then, Sam had never seen him hurting any freak, even his worthless self.
In spite of this, or maybe because of the mystery, Sam couldn't stop worrying.
Dean took a breath, placing his fingertips carefully together. "Y'know the Rule—whichever one about not letting anyone hurt you—"
"Rule Three," Sam said.
"Right, and the one about telling me what you like—
"Rule Four."
"Yeah, exactly. Well, I'm going to add something."
Sam held his breath instinctively, waiting to take in every word Dean said, even as his mind (stupid, freak mind) raced ahead with all the different possibilities. Punishments don't apply. I'm the exception to both rules, you keep your mouth shut no matter what. Haha, just ignore Rule Three, that was a joke to see if a stupid freak like you would believe it.
Somehow, he heard everything Dean might say in Victor's voice.
Dean exhaled slowly, closed his eyes, and, in a flash of panic, Sam remembered the night he thought Dean had broken a couple ribs, he was moving in so much pain. "You probably know...I like touching you, Sam. I've done more of that than I should, and I know that now, and I'm...sorry, I really am, for whenever I pushed you too much, crossed lines I shouldn't. The last thing—the very last fucking thing I want to do—" Dean was so emphatic here, pressing forward with each word, his green eyes boring into Sam's, that Sam was gripped with the deadly, terrifying awareness that this was vitally important, he hadto understand, even though he really didn't yet, "is put you in any situation where you don't like what's going on. Do you understand that, Sam?"
Sam swallowed hard. He didn't know what Dean meant by times he "pushed" Sam too much—unless he meant the one night he shook him, and Sam had barely felt that, and definitely deserved it, anyway, for spilling the peas and being so stupid that he upset Dean. He wished he could say he understood, but he really really didn't, and he couldn't lie to Dean.
Dean must have seen the confusion in his face. "Because that counts, Sam. Anytime I...I put my hands on you, even if it's a single finger, any way you don't like, that counts as hurting you, and you've gotto stop me."
"But Dean, you haven't..." Anguished, Sam lifted his hands, almost covering his eyes, before remembering, stopping himself, and forcing his eyes to stay on Dean's. "You don't do that, Dean. You never have."
Dean regarded him, unconvinced. Sam felt despondency taking hold of him—not the leaden, numb hopelessness he'd always felt before, but an acute pain as something precious (how had he dared let it become precious to him) threatened to tear away. And this was even more horrible because it was so backwards—Dean wasn't threatening to take his touch away because he'd found out how much Sam liked it, but because...
Sam shuddered in a breath, rocking back and forth involuntarily as he struggled to force the words out. "When...when you t-touch me—like you did the other day, after I broke—I...I feel better, like it's—easier to breathe, and I don't have to worry about a-anyone, or... It helps, Dean. It helps so much."
"Okay." Dean caught Sam's hands, and Sam stopped rocking. He exhaled shakily. "Okay. Like this?"
Sam nodded, unable to speak, too shaken by his own vulnerability.
"Okay." Dean squeezed Sam's hands. "But even if you like this now, there may be times when you don't, and that's okay, Sam. That's okay. It doesn't mean I'll never touch you again, it just means you want hands off right then, and I wantto know, I really do. Rule...Four, right? You just have to say one word, or make a noise, even pull away a little and I'll get it, and give you some room. Promise you'll let me know, Sam. Do you promise?"
Sam swallowed. He couldn't fathom the scenario, much less how he would comply, but with Dean looking that desperate and sincere, he didn't have a choice. "Yes, Dean. I promise."
"Good." Dean sighed, as though in relief, and didn't let go of Sam's hands. "Thank you, Sam."
Sam wouldn't have believed, a week ago, that things could improve so much. He hadn't known where they were headed, the night Dean shouted at him after the peas, but he hadn't thought they'd come back to a place where Dean would pull him close on the couch and let Sam stay there, against Dean's side. Where Dean would finally give him Rules to follow, even if they were strange and daunting (though that wasn't really anything new for Rules). Where Dean looked happyagain, and not like being near Sam caused him pain.
Dean still went out, though now it was for runs and not drinking at night. Sam had started waking up early, too, listening for Dean, then leaving his room to say good morning. He'd get a bowl of cereal, because Dean liked to see him eating even though he waited until after his run and shower for his own breakfast. While he was in the shower, Sam would start the coffee just like Dean had shown him, and he'd make a pile of toast for both of them.
The morning after they talked about Rule Three, Sam came out as Dean was tying his tennis shoes.
Dean grinned up at him. "Hey, Sam. I was thinking. How about we paint the whole apartment green, right now?"
Sam considered this carefully. "No, Dean."
Dean beamed and came over to pull Sam to him in a half-hug. For a moment, Sam thought Dean was going to press his lips to Sam's forehead, but he didn't. Dean released him and headed for the door, calling, "Forty-five minutes, tops."
Every morning, Sam recited the Rules in his head, but this morning he had to add what Dean had said last night. It was harder than expected. Not the words: he could summon up Dean's exact phrasing if he had to, but he had trouble distilling the conversation they'd had to a core Rule. Was it Anytime I put my hands on you, even if it's a single finger in any way you don't like, that counts as hurting you, and you've got to stop me? And then he told Sam specifically what "stop me" meant: You just have to say one word, or make a noise, even or pull away a little, and I'll get it, and give you some room. And he made Sampromise. It worried him that Dean would accept his promise—the word of a freak didn't mean anything—but Sam couldn't fix that, so he focused exclusively on the Rules.
He understood the words, but couldn't understand why Dean thought the new parts were so important. Especially since Dean had never touched Sam in a way he didn't like, and Sam didn't think he could recognize the situation if it happened. How would Dean know? Rules Three and Four were difficult and uncertain anyway.
Then an idea hit Sam like Kayla's elbow jabbed into his ribs. Maybe he could...ask Dean. Talk to him. Find out exactly what he meant Sam to do, who he wanted Sam to hit if someone tried to hurt him.
It took the rest of Dean's run and the eight minutes of his shower for Sam to convince himself this was feasible, that nothing bad would happen because he admitted he hadn't fully understood the first time, that he needed Dean's help. It was difficult to overcome the old fear and training, despite all of Dean's kindness in the last few weeks.
Sam waited until after they'd finished the toast and coffee, as well as the scrambled eggs Dean had thrown together (more than enough food for just one meal, but Sam had learned it was best to stop remembering before, stop comparing). He waited for Dean to bring out his book and join him on the sofa, and then he turned to face him, took a deep breath, and opened his mouth.
"Dean...I have a question." Sam was facing him on the couch, one leg drawn up under him, hands folded tightly in his lap. But he met Dean's eyes, despite all the hesitancy and apprehension written on his face. This wasn't easy for either of them yet.
Dean turned to him, giving Sam his full focus and determination. "Lay it on me."
Sam took a deep, rallying breath. "R-rule Three."
Dean rubbed behind his ear, trying and failing to recall. "Uh, right. Which one was that?"
"If someone is hurting me and I mean in any way I slug the bastard," Sam recited at top speed. "If they look at me funny or snort or something I hit them hard until they stop—even if it's y-you." At the end he faltered, twitching as his eyes fell, but he raised them immediately back to Dean's, swallowing visibly.
Shit. Dean had known, deep down, this was likely, if not inevitable—Sam taking the rules way too seriously, to the point of hurting himself. But this was good, anyway, Sam was coming to him instead of doing something horrible to himself especially when Dean couldn't see. The rules had to work, they had to help, even if they took some adjustment. That's why Sam had come to him, after all. He could not afford to think about what kind of dead end they were at if they didn'twork. "Yeah," he said at last. "What—what about that one, Sam?"
Sam took in another slow breath and shut his eyes for a few seconds, though he re-opened them to speak. "I-I don't understand. I mean...I understand the words, but...I don't know what you mean. Wh-who am I supposed to hit? If they hurt me, or...look at me?"
Dean took his time before answering. "I mean anyone, Sam. When we go out, and if I'm not watching—and I'm going to do my damn best to watch out for any assholes and keep them away from you, but if I—if one of them ever slips through, you defend yourself. I don't care if it's some guy who lives down the street, or works in a store, or passing in the park."
Sam's face went a shade whiter, though his eyes never left Dean's. "You mean r-reals."
"People. Yeah. Anyone. No one has the right to hurt you, Sam."
Sam flinched back, his control breaking. He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head rapidly, then covered his face with his hands. Dean reached for him, pulling his hands down and holding them within his own. He swallowed hard, seeing how raggedly Sam was breathing.
"I mean it," Dean said, more forcefully. "No one. That means civilians, monsters, or hunters." He thought about the bastards he'd met hunting, the guards laughing at jokes he had barely understood as a child but made his blood burn now. "Especiallyhunters."
At that, Sam keened, a sound of abject shock, horror and despair, and Dean pulled him in close. "Hey, hey, I know. They—they hurt you. I'm not gonna let them anywhere near you, but if they ever touch you again, Sam—"
"Dean," he begged, and there was a sob just underneath. "They'll call—they'll call the ASC..."
Dean rested his hand on the back of Sam's head. "Shhh. Okay, don't worry about hunters yet. I'm not letting them near you, I swear to God. But you have to know, Sam, you have my permission—no, an order—to fight back if those sonsofbitches try to hurt you. I won't be mad at you if you can't, but if you do, you won't get in trouble. And if you can't, just try to get away, call for help, something."
"Can't, can't, they'll h-hurt you if I...I'm sorry, so sorry."
Dean smiled sadly. Sam hadn't apologized at all yesterday, cutting the words off every single time. But he'd decided to use them now, when Dean was telling him he should protect himself. Fuck, this hurt. "They can try," he said. "But they won't be able to. And, hey, there won't be hunters, Sam. Boulder is clean, and no one is going to be visiting. Tell you what, we'll take this in baby steps."
Sam choked, or maybe laughed. It was hard to tell. "B-baby steps?"
"We'll leave the house, you and me. Maybe go to the park or something."
Sam shuddered in his arms. "C-can't hit a real."
"Hey, I'm not asking you to!" Dean pulled his head up. "But if a frisbee tries attacking you again, you're going to beat that flying sucker into the ground, right?"
For one awful second, Dean thought that Sam was going to just keep staring at him blankly, like not one of his words made any sense. The he ducked his head against Dean's chest and just...breathed. "I can do that," he said into Dean's shirt.
Brave or foolish, Dean couldn't decide, as his fingers brushed through Sam's hair. "Awesome, Sam," he said, "That's what I'm talking about."
He hadn't been going to push for the park that same day, but Sam actually brought it up after the breakfast dishes were done.
"Would t-today be a good day..." He glanced out the window to the sunlit street and took deep, shaky breath. "It's nice," he offered.
Dean was an idiot, but not that dense. Not when he could still see the tear tracks from their earlier conversation. He squashed the immediate impulse to keep Sam inside—and safe. That wasn't going to help either of them. "Well, I guess. It's a Tuesday, should be less crowded. You wantto?"
Sam searched his face, a careful scrutiny he performed every time Dean asked him something now, looking to see if thiswas the time he was supposed to say no. Dean bore it out, because this stage wasn't going to be easy on either of them. Baby steps.
"Yes," he said at last.
Dean nudged some of Sam's newest books with his knee. "Maybe you could bring some books, read on the grass, catch some rays." He'd skimmed one of Sam's health books from the library and been reminded of stuff about the importance of sunlight for vitamin D and endorphins—which Sam could use as much as he could get. "We could even drive, make it real easy to get there. Bring lunch."
Sam looked down at his book, ran his thumb over the page in a gentle, nearly reverent gesture. Then he looked back up and actually smiled. Small, tentative, but there. "Okay, Dean. I'd like that."
"Awesome." Dean squeezed Sam's hand once and didn't miss the flood of color that washed over Sam's face, the way he dropped his eyes for a couple seconds before meeting Dean's again. Dean grinned back at him. "That's cool, Sam. Grab your stuff."
It was definitely a much better day for visiting the park, Dean decided. Far fewer people, and he was far less of a dumbass than the first time. And Sam, too—Sam was handling everything so much better, though Dean carefully steered them away from a distant group playing frisbee, just in case.
They stayed away from the built-in amphitheatre Sam had fallen down, too, heading away from the trails, toward the sprawling trees and ample grass in between. Dean suggested that Sam pick one, keeping his tone nonchalant—all the same to me, no preference here—to make it clear it was all the same to Dean. Sam hesitated for a minute, then chose a large cottonwood in the middle.
Dean spread a large towel right on the edge of the shade, taking the half in the direct sun. He stripped off his shirt and stretched out on his back, sunglasses on and hands behind his head, while Sam settled down in the partial shade.
It was actually a lot nicer than he'd expected. They'd brought a couple cokes, four sandwiches, and Sam's books in a spare duffel, the weather was just right, and without the shrieking crowds that had been there last time, he could have dozed off right there, knowing he could just crack open his eyelids and see Sam sitting next to him, reading contentedly (and watching Dean too, hell yes, he had caught those looks).
It was beautiful and almost perfect, so he really shouldn't have been surprised when it ended.
The first warning was a whistle blast, followed by the laughter and chatter of a crowd approaching. Dean opened his eyes, saw Sam had turned his head, and sat up.
The couple dozen people were somewhere in their late teens and wore matching black and gold T-shirts. Their leader, a stacked blond with the same matching shirt, also wore an oversized Dr. Seuss hat (Cat in the Hat, Dean thought vaguely), a shiny red cape, and a backpack slung over her shoulder. She was twirling a baton with more enthusiasm than skill and marched ahead of the group like she'd just escaped from a Saturday morning cartoon. She stopped abruptly, waved the baton dramatically, and then dropped into a crouch. Five or six of the followers dropped immediately after her, with the rest mostly following suit in a couple seconds, and a couple stragglers joining the huddle slowly and with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.
The group spread out in a circle, holding hands—oh, some of the guys didn't like that—then lay down, all at once, except for the leader, who sat upright in the middle. She blew her whistle and shouted something, and one of the guys jumped to his feet, grabbed something from the leader, and took off running across the lawn. The Dr. Seuss girl blew her whistle again, and this time a girl jumped up and did the same thing, though she ran in the opposite direction.
"What," Sam said. "What are they doing?"
"Something I definitely didn't know about before I decided to move to Boulder."
Sam shifted, and the book slid off his lap. When Sam didn't catch it—he was twisting his hands together again—Dean laid his hand on top of them. Feeling Sam's hands relaxing under his made Dean feel better, less uptight about this than he could have. They were still all right.
"B-but what is it?"
"Peer pressure, Sam." Dean squinted at the kids. Most of them had run off by this time, and it looked like the leader was getting down to her least-willing participants. He abruptly realized that it was mid-August. About the time the school year started up. And Boulder had a university. Fuck. "It's gotta be part of the college crap. For the fish."
Sam glanced at him. "Fish? You mean like..." He wiggled his hand in a vague swimming motion.
"Freshmen," Dean amended. "Kids starting their first year of college. They do all these touchy-feely bonding games." And this wouldn't be the end of it. The fraternities would start up soon, and he'd been to enough college parties—research, absolutely all research—to know that Sam and affectionate first-year hazing would go together like 18th-century lace and gasoline.
He stood, while Sam watched the Cat-in-the-Hat girl with morbid fascination, and pulled on his shirt. "Sam, let's take off before she starts offering us green eggs and ham or something."
"That would be bad," Sam agreed, getting up and sliding his book into the duffel. "Especially since we just ate sandwiches withoutmold."
Dean suspected Sam didn't get the reference. "You hungry still?"
Sam shook his head. "No. The sandwiches were delicious."
The walk out of the park wasn't so bad, even though they kept seeing more groups of students-to-be running around. It looked like each group had a theme, and there were far too many of them. Dean breathed a sigh of relief when they finally got out of the park to the Impala.
"Hey, Sam."
"Yes, Dean?"
"Let's have nothing but cheese dip for dinner."
Sam looked confused. "But we don't have any—no. No, Dean."
Dean grinned and made the Impala purr to life. "That's what I want to hear."
Nothing went fast. Dean didn't really know why he expected it to. Whether staking out a witch's house or waiting in an emergency room to find out if Dad was going to be okay, nothing went fast in his life—except the moments that were immediately terrifying, and he supposed that he was grateful that they hadn't had any of those yet.
Dean kept reading Bobby's book, though at this point he found himself skipping some sections—too hard to think about—and lingering over others that offered more hope. He knew he was looking for quick answers (and, damn, had John chewed his ass when he discovered Dean looking for a guy with GED answers for sale) and wasn't going to find them in those white pages or in Sam's wary eyes.
Still, it was easier every day. Comfortable, in a danger-could-be-anywhere kind of way. Dean even found himself smiling without knowing exactly why. Once, when Sam looked up, Dean didn't even notice he was staring until Sam smiled, a slight, honest quirk of the lips that made Dean grateful all over again that he'd called Bobby instead of just drinking himself insensible and getting run over by a monster truck or something. Nothing was perfect, and Dean couldn't pretend it was all going to work out instantly. But it was seriously getting better every day.
It was late on a Thursday evening, just a little bit over one month since they had arrived in Boulder. Dean left the kitchen after doing the dishes, beer in hand—he drank two or three a night sometimes, but hadn't had anything stronger since that last truly fucked-up binge—and couldn't keep the smile off his face when he looked at Sam half-buried in his latest book.
It was a coffee table book or something—big enough to bea coffee table, if someone attached little legs to it—and had a big picture of white-capped mountains on the front cover. Sam looked so fixated, Dean would have worried the book was a matter of life and death, if the expression hadn't turned, briefly, to wide-eyed wonder every time he turned the page.
Dean watched, enjoying the peace. Then he realized that Sam hadn't turned the page in at least a minute.
Dean cleared his throat and took a sip of his beer, trying to keep his voice casual even over the sudden plummet of his stomach. "Whatcha reading, Sam?"
Sam looked up, blinking in surprise, and then blushed. He dropped his eyes, visibly remembered, and then raised them up again, cheeks pink. "Not really reading," he said, holding Dean's eyes with such utter strength that—between that and the blush, god damn—it knocked Dean's breath away.
He had to cough a couple times to get his heart rate back under control. "Not reading? But it's a book. Whatcha doing, then?" He set the beer on the table and came to sit down. Released, Sam dropped his eyes.
The book was open to a full double-page spread showing the St. Louis arches at night, silhouetted against a dark city background with brilliant, flowering fireworks splashed across the sky. Sam's fingers were almost reverent as they slid over the glossy page.
Looking down at the photo, Dean realized that Sam hadn't been there. Sam hadn't been anywhere except a shithole prison in Nevada, a handful of places in Boulder, and this apartment. Dean had promised him so much more.
"It's beautiful," Sam whispered. "I like...I like just looking sometimes." He glanced at Dean, and then down again, wetting his lips. "Just looking without reading or...anything else."
It wasn't so much a plan as the knowledge that they could, so why the hell not?Nothing was holding them there. Nothing could really stop them from anything they wanted. And the only thing keeping Sam cooped and confined was Dean's fear.
Dean grabbed Sam's hand and pulled him up from the couch. "Let's go," he said. "Let's go see it."
Sam stared. "Go...where? Dean?"
"Here, Sam!" Dean rapped the book with his knuckles and couldn't keep the grin off his face. "I'll show you the arch, the Great Lakes. I'll show you Grand fucking Canyon." Because you deserve it all, Sam.
"I..." Sam looked nervous, staring, and Dean realized maybe this wasn't what Sam wanted. Bobby's book had said sometimes people close to the survivors could project their own desires and shit onto them, and that might be what he was doing right here, putting his foot in it and pushing Sam where he didn't have the resources—yet—to go. Dean backpedaled, fast.
"I mean, that is, if you..." He took a deep breath and let go of Sam's hand. Just because they didn't go today didn't mean that they couldn't ever leave. There would be other days, and what Sam needed was most important, even if every day Dean remained in Boulder felt like picking the scab off a wound. "Only if you want to, Sam."
Sam swallowed. "Want to...what?" he asked carefully.
Dean waved a hand in the general direction of the book. "Go there. Go everywhere." Just like I promised you.
"Like...like the pictures you used to bring? Is this a 'no' question?"
"No, Sam, I promise this is serious. You can say no if you want, but yeah, it's like the pictures I used to bring."
Sam turned and looked at the book. Dean saw his throat work, and his hands clench. "C-can we? Am I allowed..." He shook his head. "Yes, Dean. I want to. If we can."
And just like that, Dean felt a grin break across his face. He wanted to grab Sam and hug him, kiss him senseless. But all he did was squeeze Sam's shoulder. "Awesome. Let's go. Right now."
Sam stared when Dean rushed to his room. He found the spare duffel they'd brought to the park, dumped the towel out on his bed, and brought the empty bag to Sam. "Here, you can pack your stuff in here."
Sam blinked at the bag. "What should I bring?"
Dean spread his arms wide and couldn't stop grinning. "Everything! It's an adventure."
"Like...clothes? Toothbrush?"
"Yes and yes, anything you want. Hell, you can probably fit all your worldly possessions in there. We haven't bought you nearly enough stuff, even by my standards."
Sam stared at the bag, and then slowly raised his eyes. Dean was almost giddy to see that he was smiling. "Yeah. I can fit it all in here."
"Awesome." Dean let the elation, the whirlwind of action overcome him, and he pulled Sam close for a hug, and a brush of his lips over Sam's temple, before he let him go. "Gotta get my own stuff ready, Sam. Be back out here in fifteen?"
Sam's cheeks were pink, and his smile hadn't faltered an inch. "Yes, Dean."
They were ready in forty-six minutes, and ran long only because Dean decided they should throw all their food in the Impala, too. They tossed their duffels in the back seat, cereal and fruit on top of them, and a spare blanket and Dean's armory in the trunk. They chugged the rest of the milk and orange juice—straight from the bottles and ice cold—and Dean tucked the last two beers under his seat, and quizzed Sam on the stuff he'd brought, making sure he had clothes, toothbrush, and at least one of the books from Dean's shelf.
They swung by the library on the way out of town and dumped Sam's books in the book-drop. Dean had no idea when they were coming back to Boulder—didn't want to think that far ahead—and Sam had refused to keep his books past the due date. Small delay, but it made Sam smile again, like his world was fucking perfect right then, and Dean would have done a hell of a lot more for a look like that.
By midnight they were roaring along I-70 east, leaving the lights of Denver behind them. It was a dark, clear road, empty but for a couple semis, and Dean reveled in the purr of the car beneath them, his hands on the wheel, and the vast expanse of emptiness and freedom before them. Best of all, Sam was right next to him, so close that Dean could almost hear his breathing under the low croon of the Rolling Stones, and safe.
Dean drove, and Sam eventually fell asleep with his head against the window, and the stars burned as bright as the possibilities before them.