Disclaimer: I do not now, nor will I ever own anything related to Supernatural. I do own my own characters and places though.
A/N: Italics are memories and thoughts. Also I've kind of modeled where they are after my home town in California, but not exactly. I've also attempted to set it in 1995, as Sam is 12, Dean is 16, so apologies if I've mucked it up. Comments and reviews are loved!
HELLO. ICH BEIN EIN BERLINER. True, I am a doughnut, but what I mean is that I am currently in Germany and will continue to be so for the next 10 days. I am planning to put up chapter 27 like a week from today, however, I may not be able to find internet at that time. If that is the case, know that it is a brief and unintentional hiatus and I deeply apologize.
Dean shook his head, blinking quickly. That man... who the hell was he? How did he know Dean's name? Dean looked at the nurse he'd been talking to.
"Who was that guy?"
The nurse glanced at the door the strange man had just departed through. The nurse gave him a small smile.
"That was George. He's a homeless man who lives around here."
Dean tilted his head, considering what George had said to him. He shook his head again. Another time, another place. He had bigger things to worry about right then. Like Sam. He turned and planted his hands on the desk and put all of his concern and fear for Sammy into his face. The nurse was focused, so apparently it worked.
"Where is my brother?"
The nurse looked away guiltily. Dean's eyes narrowed. Something was wrong. This was weird. He should have at least been taken back to make sure it's Sam... identification of the person because Sammy was running around in a dress of all things... what the hell had he been thinking? Dean felt a nauseating wave of his own guilt wash through him and he took a deep breath to steady himself. When Sam had been pleading with him not to leave... he'd never thought Sam would actually do anything like this. Hadn't thought a twelve year old, for God's sake, would try to kill himself. Over him.
God, how can he not know? He's worth so much, gets good grades, can actually make something of himself in this world. He doesn't have to hunt forever, doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to. How has he gotten so tangled up in me? He's supposed to be the strong, independent one! The one who can do things by himself and doesn't need anyone, much less his sicko brother!
The nurse was saying something to him and Dean struggled to tune in to what he was saying, it might be something important, something about Sam, why aren't they fucking letting me see Sammy?
"Well, he's lost a lot of blood and we had to perform a transfusion, but it is of course, very rare, to see someone his age trying to end their own lives unless something very traumatic has gone on at home."
Dean just stared, trying to work her words through his brain, seeing if there was any information there about why he hadn't been immediately rushed to see his baby brother. He came up empty. The nurse leaned forward, resting his hand on Dean's shoulder in what he was sure was supposed to be a comforting gesture. Dean flinched away and the nurse frowned deeply, his face taking on a pursed appearance.
"Well I guess you can come back and at least sit with him until your parents arrive."
Dean nodded, holding in his own hysterical laughter. As if his father would ever actually come to the hospital. No, Dean reached back to his wallet and gently fingered his I.D. stating that he was 22 years old and the I.D. next to it, the one that said he was 19, and the one with the name that was on their medical insurance. It was also the one that had legal custody of Sammy.
The nurse stopped him before opening the door gently, and he was saying something else to Dean, but Dean was done listening. He could see Sam, tubes connected, chest slowly rising and falling under a flimsy hospital gown and sheet, and how he looked pale, too pale for comfort. He shoved past the nurse who made a weird shrieking noise and Dean was hauling a chair over and planting himself next to Sammy's unconscious body, taking his hand and stroking the tops of his knuckles gently. He felt the nurse approach from behind and wanted to turn around and hiss at him to leave them alone, let him be with his Sammy, but just in time, he managed to restrain himself.
"He could wake up any time now. The sedatives we gave him for the transfusion and the stitches and all of the treatments should be wearing off pretty soon. He'll have some faint scars on his arms, but we are still concerned about a possible infection in the, ah, other wound."
Dean swung his head around to pin the nurse with his gaze, holding a fair amount of rage. The nurse flinched away. Dean spoke very slowly, hating every second that this man was taking away from him being able to watch Sam. Fuck if I ever let this kid out of my sight again. I am going to be right here, unless he doesn't... if he ever changes his mind... and doesn't want me... well I doubt I can give him up for good, but at least I can be secretive about it, just drop by every so often to check up on him... I have the makings of a stalker. Excellent, Winchester.
"What other wound?"
The nurse evaluated him with a long look before walking around to the other side of the hospital bed. He gently lifted the hospital gown and sheet to reveal Sam's legs. Dean still wasn't seeing anything, other than some grass and flower petals clinging to his legs. The man continued to raise the gown higher and higher and Dean's hackles were raised. He reached out to stop him, trying to grab hold of the gown and cover Sam. Hadn't he been revealed enough? The man folded the gown over Sam's stomach and parted his legs. Dean was on his feet, about to yell and scream and shoot this guy in the face for touching Sammy, his Sammy, how dare he-
Then he saw the wound. It was a bruise, fairly recent but still fading. However, he remembered that bruise vividly, remembered sucking it onto the inside of Sammi's thigh, remembered the high he'd felt from marking her up, marking her as his and his alone. It had been better than any drug he'd ever had and idly, in the back of his mind, he wondered if he was developing some kind of dominating kink. It probably didn't help that Sammi was a natural submissive and that thought only fueled the lust coursing through his body at the memories.
He tamped down on the inappropriate feelings, because on top of the bruise was a word, a name, carved deeply into the tender flesh. It had stopped bleeding, and the nurse was carefully changing the bandages in order to smear more ointment, something about preventing infection and trying to minimize the scarring, but the name seemed to be dug in almost to the knife hilt and the wave of nausea came back full force.
Before the word was fully revealed, Dean knew what it was. Knew that Sam had probably been murmuring his name, apologizing and pleading as he breathed what he was sure would be his last breath. Dean felt his own lungs hitch as the full weight of everything finally sank onto him. His knees gave out and he reseated himself heavily in the uncomfortable chair. The cold metal burned through his ratty clothes, but he didn't see anything, couldn't notice anything, outside of Sam. His Sam. And wasn't that just the way things always were?
He thought he'd been doing the right thing. He'd thought that it was a phase or something; that the whole thing would go away if he ignored it,, just disappear. He wondered to himself bitterly what it said about him as a person that going out, getting tipsy, leaving his baby brother crying, shrieking, suicidal, on the floor of their rented house, and trying in vain to get in a quickie with the hot, blonde bartender in the bathroom, was his best idea of how to deal with problems. Problems like having his baby brother in love with him. Problems like loving him back.
He was holding Sam's hand again, running his thumb in careful circles over the cuts on his wrist, mapping out what he knew would be scars Sam would carry for the rest of his life. And every time he looked, when Sam wasn't wearing long sleeves - and Jesus the kid was such a freak, wearing long sleeves even in the summer and it wasn't like he was actually cold, not judging by the amount of sweat pouring off of him, but to cover his wrists because, well, he'd been cutting for a long time before this ever happened and why hadn't he ever gotten around to talking with Sam about that? Before everything spiraled out of control? Why hadn't he ever just fucking sat down and had a serious conversation with his baby brother? - he'd be reminded.
He'd be reminded of how many times Sam had tried to talk to him and how many times he'd brushed him off or hadn't listened. How many times he'd made a joke or changed the topic or distracted Sammy by getting him in a headlock instead of facing the issue. How many times he'd muttered No Chick Flick Moments because he was too damn scared of his own feelings to deal with anyone else's. How many times he'd been too selfish to think of Sam for one minute. And how many times he'd been thinking of Sam, trying to do the right thing and failing miserably because he didn't know enough, didn't understand the situation clearly, didn't understand Sam because he'd been shutting him down and not fucking listening.
How often throughout his life he'd done what he thought was best for Sam and how often it really wasn't that good for Sam at all. How many more times he'd do that throughout their lives. How many times he'd thought of Sam when he shouldn't have, when he was fucking guys who looked about ten years younger than their actual age, when he hired a prostitute who was so obviously his baby brother. But he had been blinded by how good she felt and tasted that he kept assuring himself, over and over, that there was no possible way it could be Sam, even as he was gasping Sammi when he came, over and over again.
He'd be reminded of how he'd failed. And how he would always be doomed to fail. For a brief, crazy moment, Dean considered calling their father, confessing everything to him. Let him send Sam away, maybe to Uncle Bobby's or Pastor Jim's or Caleb's. Let him stay somewhere for more than a month or two at a time. Make friends. Date people his own age, go to the same school semester after semester, go to the college of his choice, fall in love with someone who wasn't his goddamned brother. But as soon as he had the thought, he was shaking his head.
Their father wouldn't give up Sam. Jim had confided in Dean, a few years ago, that he and a few others who'd known John while Dean was still in kindergarten, had all offered, at different points, to raise the boys for John. To take them in and let them live there, with John visiting when he could and sending postcards when he couldn't. John refused every time. Dean wondered if John would still refuse.
Dean's imagination turned from Sam with some faceless girl walking around the stereotypical college campus to a dark building where his father was torturing him. He'd probably think Dean was a monster, Dean agreed, some shapeshifter or possessed by a demon, maybe something worse. Sam would be told to wait at the hotel or in the car, but he wouldn't. He'd try to rescue Dean, maybe, or kill their father and take Dean and they'd leave, living on their own under the radar and in constant fear of CPS until Dean actually turned 18. A couple of years of living on the road and an entire lifetime stretching before them of doing the same thing. If their father killed Dean, he had no illusions that Sam would be quick to follow him, with their dad or not. No matter how it ended, it wouldn't matter anymore.
Dean couldn't take it. He stood up quickly, glancing around the room. The nurse had left while he'd been deep in thought. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there, but the wound had been re-bandaged and the gown and sheet were pulled down, modestly covering Sam once again. Dean leaned over Sam's face and kissed him on each eyelid, not sure if the apologies he was saying were in his head or out loud. He watched as he accidentally dripped a few tears onto Sam's face, but suddenly couldn't bring himself to wipe them away. He felt the bile rising into his throat again and knew he couldn't hold it off any longer. He squeezed Sam's hand once and dashed off to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him and not even bothering to lock it before sinking to his knees in front of the pristine toilet and dirtying it.
Not a minute after his run, Sam's eyes fluttered open. He took a deep breath and tried to roll over to see what was going on. His vision was bleary and he couldn't quite remember what had happened. His body was exhausted and his arms and inner right thigh really hurt though...
Dean learning everything, the look on his face, the floor, crying begging pleading, I'll do anything, I love you don't you get it? Dean crying, shoulders shaking, Dean walking out the door, rocking on the dirty floor, writing the letter, smudging the ink of the pen because the tears wouldn't stop flowing, wiping his nose impatiently. Putting on the dress he'd bought with Lexy, it seemed like so long ago that he'd gotten it, leaving all of the money in the pocket of Dean's jacket along with the letter. Putting it on the couch because that was usually where Dean ended up when he was drunk and there was no doubt in his mind that Dean was heading off to get wasted, trying to forget his horrid little brother, the one he'd always done everything for, sacrificed his childhood, his schooling, everything for. Staggering outside and looking around, clutching the knife to his chest, the one Dad had given him a lifetime ago, back when he was still worthy of being his son, being a Winchester, being Dean's brother, but had he ever really been worthy of that honor? Probably not.
Wandering around, seeing a hill. Well, it was kind of too small to be a hill but he wasn't really in the mind to be choosy. Sitting down in the rose patch, thorns pricking his bare arms and legs and feet. He hadn't worn any shoes. He looked down, his feet were bleeding. He shifted his legs, ignoring the tiny pinpricks. He looked long and hard at the bruise. The mark Dean had given him. He laughed, the sound ringing shrilly in his ears. Dean had given it to Sammi, someone else. Not his brother. Never his innocent baby brother; someone to be protected against everything at any cost.
He was carving Dean's name into it before he had a chance to think about it. He sank the knife in as far as he could, severing muscles and flesh. On the Ahe thought he felt the knife nick the bone, but he wasn't sure. He was crying and snotting all over the wound, whispering Dean's name over and over again until he forgot every other word he'd ever learned. None of them would ever have been as important and none of that mattered now.
He sliced at his arms and wrists viciously. He'd taken time and care with Dean's name, cutting each stroke lovingly into his soft skin. Because it was Dean. Now though, it was just Sam, and when had he stopped feeling pain? When had he started getting dizzy? The flowers were spinning and dancing around him, singing softly. He was still holding the knife, but he leaned forward curiously.
You can learn a lot of things from the flowers, especially in the month of June.
Sam had frowned. It wasn't June anymore. It hadn't been for over a month. These flowers obviously weren't keeping up with the times very well.
There's a wealth of happiness and romance in the Golden Afternoon.
Sam had smiled, shrugging to himself. What did it matter if the flowers knew what month it was? Their voices were hauntingly beautiful, although Sam strongly suspected it was just his own mind playing tricks on him. He wouldn't say it happened often and most likely, the blood loss had something to do with it. Maybe the flowers could give him some good advice about all this, or maybe Sam just needed to hear a beautiful voice, (like his mothers, oh how he wished he could remember his mother's voice sometimes!), maybe all he needed right now, in his time of dying, by his own hand, by the hand of a monster which was always how Dean had figured he'd die someday so maybe Sam was just getting the jumpstart on things and wouldn't that just gall Dean? That finally, in an aspect other than grades - which Sam knew Dean could do better on because he was smart dammit! - and other than research, which was really just patience and a love of reading and learning for the sake of learning, that Sam would beat Dean at something. Get there first.
Of course, he'd wait. Sam believed. He wasn't positive on what he believed in, but he believed that angels were watching over his brother and maybe, maybe he could talk to those angels, ask if he could wait for Dean. Stay somewhere and wait until his time. Not that Sam could be an angel, but maybe he could help watch over Dean, keep him safe until it really was his time. And when he died, Sam would make it painless and he'd be there, waiting for Dean. And maybe, the angels, or God, or whoever, would let them be together in the afterlife. Let them hang out and play and run around a never-ending forest and jump in a lake and swim into the distance which they'd never reach and bask by the side of a river in the heat, letting their feet dangle in the refreshingly cool water. Dean would make fun of him and cuff him on the side of the head and Sam would run away and climb a tree and throw pinecones and they'd laugh and laugh and laugh.
Sam was still smiling when the memory was over, imagining all the fun he and Dean could have. Presumably, if they were in Heaven or around angels or something like that, they'd take away all of his wrong feelings for Dean and erase all of that tension and horribleness that was between them. Maybe Dean would forgive him and not be angry that Sam had killed himself. Sam had heard that suicides went to Hell, but by watching over Dean and helping the angels he could redeem himself enough so that he could stay with Dean eventually. Unless Dean didn't want him.
Sam felt tears welling up in his eyes again. In the back of his mind he noticed that there were already tears on his face and instinctively, he knew they were Dean's. He was in a hospital and he wasn't dead. He had a very vague memory of being carried, by someone unfamiliar, to this hospital, and a lot of commotion going on around him, and doctors hovering, clicking, and shaking their heads when they saw Dean's name on his thigh.
He hoped that it would scar, knew there was no way it wouldn't. He tried to kick again in sheer frustration and found that his legs and waist were restrained. Upon closer inspection, his arms were restrained as well, although not as tightly because of his injuries. He couldn't move. The restraints would hardly let him move at all. He knew it was because he'd tried to kill himself, knew that suicides either had to be on watch or restrained if the hospital was too understaffed for 24 hour watch, but somehow none of it seemed to compute.
Dean stumbled out of the bathroom, wiping the water he'd used to rinse his mouth out and wash his face off with the back of his arm. He was just down the hall from Sam's room and was almost there when the nurse from before, a doctor, and a few people who looked like security cornered him. He glared at all of them, not in the mood to have it out with these people.
"Mr. Hammett, I'm Doctor Carstairs and this is Nurse Partridge. We need to speak with you."
Dean continued to look at them steadily, wiping his face of any emotion. He straightened up. The nurse hesitated, but the doctor continued.
"Your brother, when he came in, was pretty badly injured." Dean nodded. "Due to the nature of his leg injury, we performed a rape kit."
The doctor paused, trying to gauge Dean's response. Dean was careful not to give one. The doctor finally gave up and went on.
"We didn't find any semen, but there was some scar tissue in your brother's rectum, indicating participation in sexual activity. Because of his young age, it is automatically considered rape in this state."
Dean continued to stare impassively at the doctor. The doctor sighed in frustration and flipped through the pages on a clipboard he was holding.
"It says here that you two have a father who lives with you, but you are his legal guardian. Can I speak to your father? Is he on his way?"
"He's out of town on business and cannot come."
The doctor lost his temper and exploded.
"Son, this is very serious! Your little brother was raped! Don't you understand what's going on here? He was raped, in all likelihood multiple times, at least judging by the scarring, and was clearly so traumatized by the whole thing that he tried to take his own life!"
Dean understood very well and he was at the end of his rope with this doctor. He saw the guards eyeing his warily and his throat closed up. He coughed once and asked in a low voice, threateningly, "And you think I did this?"
Finally the doctor hesitated. The nurse shifted uncomfortably and one of the guards had his hand lingering near the holster on his belt. Dean was willing to bet he could outdraw the guy, but he didn't want to test the theory. Especially because Sam chose that moment to start screaming.
Sam was remembering. Remembering vividly the incident in the car and the man drugging him, his soda tasting strange and coming back to their house, covered in blood, most of which couldn't possibly have been his, trying to scrub it off and not managing to, finding way more money and wondering if he'd killed they guy or what had happened. And then in the bathroom, not too long after, with Dean coming in and torturing that guy and Dean leaving. No, no, no, Dean come back I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, come back Dean, and he did, but his eyes were crazed and he'd wanted to take Sammi home, but then he'd know where she lived, recognize his own damn house, even if they were only renting it temporarily, getting someone else to take him home, remembering being curled up against Dean's chest afterwards with him apologizing of all things.
And now Dean wasn't here and he needed Dean to be here and why wasn't he here? Why was he alone? There was no one, no one else and what if he'd succeeded? What if all suicides really did go to Hell? Was this Hell? Being alone, restrained and unable to move or call out in a hospital bed? Sam couldn't tell if he was making any noise or not, kept trying to scream, Dean Dean Dean DEAN DEAN. Please come back, I'm sorry, I'll do anything, I love you, do you still love me at all? I promise you can do anything you want, anything at all. I won't fight, would never fight you. Can't, couldn't, wouldn't, need you Dean. Please. Please.
The security guards were stupid enough to try and keep Dean away from his brother. He efficiently slammed one into the other, making sure they were both in a tangled heap on the ground before shoving past the doctor. The nurse was the only intelligent one, the one who opened the door to Sam's room and stood aside, letting Dean pass. He sat on the bed, next to Sam and curled his body around him. Sam was wracked with shivers, unable to stop shaking. Dean quickly undid the restraints on his arms and waist and Sam's screams subsided into sobs as he hid his face in Dean's neck, breathing deep and opening his mouth against his skin, lips forming promises and tongue reiterating them, scalding them forever.
The security guards stood up carefully, neither of them badly hurt. Dean would have hurt them worse, but he'd been too bent on just getting them out of his way. One of them had a few sprained fingers and the other had an almost dislocated knee and the doctor was busy getting to the phone in the room, glancing shakily at Dean and Sam every few seconds. When Dean saw what he was doing he growled and the doctor froze, his finger pointed over the 9 button, about to call for the police, or CPS, or help, or Jesus, maybe the fire department to take down this apparently insane, violent kid. Sam tried to intervene.
"Look, please."
He had to cough and clear his throat a couple of times before he could rasp out anymore. I guess that answers my question about whether I was able to make any noise before or not. He wanted to smile, but wasn't sure it would help his case.
"Please, let him stay. I won't try and hurt myself anymore."
Dean growled softly and wrapped his arms tighter around Sam. Sam felt a shiver race down his spine at how protective Dean was being. The growling may have contributed too. Sam's cock was really interested in getting Dean to growl like that more. As if sensing that, Dean slithered down and released the remaining restraints holding Sam's legs fast. Sam let out a small sigh of relief at being able to move. His pain receptors had apparently come back online, although, judging by how dull the ache was, he figured he was pretty doped up.
It was becoming more and more difficult to concentrate on what he was saying and stay awake. He yawned hugely. Dean smiled at him and Sam could have cried at how happy Dean looked. With a supreme effort, he forced himself to return his gaze to the doctors. Dean murmured unhappily and resumed snuggling, twining his legs around Sam as well. The doctor looked a little askance at their closeness. Sam smiled serenely.
"Let him stay. He's never done anything to hurt me and he'll keep me from hurting myself. Please. We just need to sleep and everything will be better. Just a little sleep..."
Sam's eyelashes fluttered and his eyes were rapidly closing. It took him a few seconds to figure out why he suddenly couldn't see, but he didn't have the strength to force his eyes open again. He tried to struggle against the impending sleep, wasn't sure he'd quite made his point, but there wasn't much he could do. He heard Dean talking to the doctors, thought he heard the sound of footsteps leaving the room, might have heard the sound of the door closing, wasn't sure. All he knew was that Dean's heartbeat was slow and steady in his ears, Dean's hands making soothing circles on his back, and he drifted off, dreaming for some reason about elephants that always knew the way to the hospital.