Author notes: WE'RE FINALLY BACK.
RL has been very cruel to all of us (my co-author, Brose, and I, and our beta whereupon). But we are back and will press ahead. Also, if you haven't yet been to our LJ comm (freac_campDOTlivejournalDOTcom), you should get over there, because this chapter is accompanied by NEW FANART that I can't post here. And there's a lot of other fanart, extra timestamps, and other goodies you won't see here.
Enjoy! But please don't beg for "more soon" - we are doing absolutely the best we can, and we hate it too when it's going this slow.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The phone was ringing when Bobby came in at two a.m., sore and tired from a hunt with a lot more running and hitting the floor than his old bones expected. He thought about just letting the damn thing ring—he hurt too damn much to be any good on another hunt, and if he picked up and it was some idiot drunk-dialing him because he knew some girl named Bobby, he was going to have to shoot someone—but after eight rings, he sighed and picked it up.
"What?" This was no hour for pleasantries.
"It's for Dean." The voice at the end of the line was tense with barely-controlled panic, high, male. "I swear it's for Dean please don't hang up."
It took a moment for Bobby to make the connection. "Is this...Sam?"
"Yes, yes, please don't hang up, M-Mr. Singer, it's for Dean."
Bobby wasn't sure if his hand had gone numb, or maybe his brain. Sam had never called. Sam had barely spoken when they were in the same room. "Kid, slow down, what's wrong?"
"The fr-freak got him in the leg, and I g-got him wrapped up, but the w-wound is turning purple and spreading and he's feverish, doesn't know me, and I think the claws had some kind of p-poison. His eyes are—they were turning blue around the edges and now he won't open them and I can't—"
"Sam, calm down." Bobby leaned against the wall. "Do you know what it was?"
"We th-thought it was a wyvren, there had been some classic sightings, but when we got there it looked more like some kind of naga or j-just a big bat and...I don't know, we didn't know, but an iron round took it down. I have the corpse in the back, I didn't know if you'd need it for a cure, if you'd k-know what it was. Couldn't leave it for the re—c-civilians to find and didn't have time to burn it."
Even panicked out of his mind, Sam had saved the evidence, cleaned the trail. Bobby was impressed.
"That's good," he said. "Where are you?"
"F-forty minutes away," Sam gasped. "Less if I can be sure there aren't any cops. Maybe twenty min-minutes. Please be there. You ha-have to help him."
Bobby swallowed, tightening his grip on the phone. "I'll be here. Just get him here safely."
Now that Bobby was listening, he could hear the roar of the Impala in the background, and a low groaning that had to be Dean. Sam's voice was tight, controlled and desperate. "Always."
Once he hung up, with a fresh surge of adrenaline pounding through him, Bobby considered the likelihood this injury was something Sam had caused, set up, or allowed to happen. But the trick there was why Sam would bring Dean here, if that were the case. Even with his long years of paranoia, Bobby couldn't make sense of that. He would have to trust the kid, then, but watch his—and Dean's—back at the same time.
Sam made it in twenty-six minutes. Bobby had expected the Impala to fly into his yard (there was still a dent in his porch from one time John had skidded to a stop with Dean in the backseat) and had made sure the dogs were safely in their kennels both for their safety and for Sam's sake, but Sam pulled through the junkyard gates slowly, gliding to an easy halt rather than slamming on the brakes. But as soon as the car had come to a stop, Sam bolted out of the driver's side and skidded around the edge of the car, hitting his knee on the Impala's bumper on the turn. His movements held all the self-careless panic and speed that Bobby had expected in how he handled the car.
Bobby hurried down the steps, careful to stay far enough away from Sam not to get in his way while he worked to get Dean out of the seat—Sam had even put a seatbelt on Dean, a safety feature that Bobby had seen used in the Impala maybe a handful of times.
"I got the couch set up for him," Bobby said. "Figured the trip upstairs would be a nightmare, and he should be close as possible to the kitchen if it's bad. Where'd you put the corpse?"
Sam glanced toward him, not at his eyes, but close, and then focused on getting Dean out of the Impala. "Backseat," he said. Dean moaned when Sam maneuvered his shoulder a little farther out of the door and jostled the arm that he had wrapped tight against his chest. Sam flinched like he had been stuck with a pin. "Shhhh," he said. "We're here, Dean. You're gonna be okay. It's all going to be okay."
Bobby put an arm over the Impala's roof to shade the window from the glare of the house's lights, and peered at the creature. He sighed in relief. It was a Rocky Mountain variation on a black quetzalcoatl. Not very common, and its venom could be lethal if left untreated, but mostly it was no worse to deal with than a slow-acting allergic reaction. Hunters died because by the time they started feeling the worst effects (widespread numbness and hallucinations), they weren't in any kind of shape to get themselves to help.
After Sam and Bobby got Dean up the porch stairs and laid out on Bobby's battered couch—the kid was stronger than he looked, barely panting from bearing half of Dean's weight—Sam skittered away from Dean's side while Bobby leaned over the wound. It was an ugly slash in his outer thigh right above the knee—curling purple around the edges and spilling out a fresh flow of blood when Bobby tentatively pulled away the crude bandage he assumed Sam had wrapped around it—but not particularly deep. Bobby figured he'd shoot Dean with a basic yet reliable anti-toxin and antihistamine and then place a poultice to slow the bleeding and draw out the rest of the toxin. He'd stitch the kid back together once he was sure he wouldn't be locking something nasty inside his body.
The whole situation wasn't great, but Dean would be fine.
"Is he—" Sam's quiet, cut-off comment had Bobby's head snapping up from the wound and one hand reaching for the knife at his belt. He wasn't sure if momentarily forgetting the kid's presence was a sign that his instincts felt he could trust the kid, or if the fact that he still reached for a weapon when startled by him meant that Bobby would be foolish to drop his guard quite yet. "Is it b-bad?" Sam finished, hands twisted together.
Bobby blinked into Sam's white, desperate face and realized that he hadn't said a word out loud of his positive diagnosis, hadn't offered a single word of reassurance. And he had no idea why not. Sure, more than one person had called him a tight-lipped bastard—or maybe that had just been John screaming at him on several occasions—but usually if another hunter walked through the door, they either needed to hear what pumpkin-headed idiots they had been, or had to know that they had done their best. Either way, he gave them that. It was part of being a general resource for the hunter community and still alive at his age. But he hadn't said more than a few terse words to Sam since they'd arrived.
Bobby looked at the kid. He was pale, tense, all his attention focused either on Dean's ashen face or on Bobby's hands cutting away Dean's shredded jeans. But Bobby didn't see just a young, inexperienced hunter, confronted maybe for the first time with the real possibility of death coming to someone that he loved. He saw a kid tied down in a blank white room, waiting for the pain.
Maybe some part of him still saw the kid as a threat, something that could turn around and bite Dean hard in the ass because Dean wasn't going to be watching his back as sharp with someone he was clearly head over heels for. But most of Bobby just had a hard time looking the kid in the eye when every time he saw his still-too-thin face, it reminded him of the kind of monster he was, that he could see a kid getting tortured in front of him and just walk away.
That ended now. That ended right now, or his name wasn't Singer.
"He'll be fine, Sam," Bobby said. "I've got all the stuff I need. We'll hit him with the basic antibiotics and something to cut the swelling, a wrap to draw out the poison, and hopefully by dawn we'll be stitching him up. You stay with him, let me get the poultice started. By tonight he'll be fine, or at least as fine as a slash that big would let him be normally."
Sam looked down, his body sagging with relief. Bobby hadn't realized how tightly-wound Sam had been until he relaxed. Maybe Sam had never actually been relaxed around him. Something to think about, but not before they'd gotten something on the idjit's wound to make sure he didn't bleed to death or go into anaphylactic shock.
Bobby went to the kitchen, where he kept the herbs he cooked with and the herbs he worked supernatural cures with—more overlap than you'd think: it was amazing the things a man could do with garlic and a little caraway—and started putting together an anti-toxin. Halfway through, he grabbed one of the more versatile grimoires (if you substituted "chicken" for "sucklyng dragyn," it had a damn fine fried wings recipe) to check the ingredients ratio. He fried it into a stinking, soggy mess, drained the liquid off, and then packed it into a poultice.
When he came out, he caught only the tail end of Sam's abrupt movement away from the couch. He had probably been sitting wedged in there some way that wouldn't cause Dean pain, but by the time Bobby had cleared the doorway, Sam was standing about a foot away from the couch, watching Bobby without ever meeting his eyes.
Bobby dragged one of his lighter chairs one-handed to Dean's side and pressed the compress onto the wound, hard. It must have hurt like some kind of bitch, but Dean did nothing more than groan and toss a little. That, more than anything, brought home how very close a save it had been, how Dean wasn't in much danger of dying now, but without the kid, he would have been pretty much screwed. Bobby lifted the compress every few minutes, checking to make sure that the poison was drawing out, leaving a luminous purple smear soaking into the compress. When Dean's fever dropped after what seemed like ages but had probably only been a couple hours, Bobby put the compress aside (now stained with more blood than toxin). He rubbed the edges of the slash with a local anesthetic, popped open a sterile, pre-threaded needle, and then slid the needle into Dean's skin.
Even though the pain had to be mostly dull, Dean moaned and twitched while Bobby laid a neat line of stitches between the two ragged edges of skin. Once or twice, Bobby thought he caught Dean muttering Sammy, where's Sam. When Dean's movements got jerky enough to make Bobby worry about the stitching, he replied, he's safe, fine, now hold still, idjit, while I sew you up.
When Bobby was done, he looked up, but Sam wasn't hovering worriedly next to the couch. Surprised, and blinking from fatigue and the change of focus, Bobby had to make two visual sweeps of the room before he was completely sure the kid wasn't in sight.
"Sam?" He glanced toward the kitchen, then noticed a light shining from the bathroom. Bobby pulled himself unsteadily to his feet—it had been a damn long day—and moved cautiously toward the partially open door. "Kid?" He didn't want to intrude, but as fucked up as Sam's upbringing had been, Bobby figured Sam wouldn't have left the door open if he just had to do his business. When Bobby didn't hear a response, he pushed the door the rest of the way open.
Sam's bloodstained overshirt was folded neatly on top of the closed toilet seat, while the kid leaned against the bathroom counter, holding his left arm over the sink. The jagged slash across his forearm was too big for the neat line of butterfly bandages barely holding it together. The amount of blood covering the kid's shirt (why hadn't he noticed before? Had he just assumed it was all Dean's, that Sam cowered behind him during hunts and got away without a scratch?) was enough to give Bobby one of those angry and unpleasant fear-based adrenaline shots.
"The hell, Sam?"
Sam started, almost dropping the needle in his other hand. Not that it would have mattered much, with one end of the suture already sewn through his skin. Bobby took a step inside, and Sam flinched and dropped his eyes, his left fist clenching and straining the bandages.
"Sorry," Sam said, eyes darting to his shirt on the toilet, the blood streaking down into the sink. "I'll c-clean it up when I'm done, when I know I'm not g-going to make more of a mess."
"I don't care about the decor, kid, why didn't you say something?" He motioned toward the bloody arm and the awkward angle. "You could have held down the compress while I stitched that up."
Sam's eyes flickered nervously in Bobby's direction, and then back down to his wound. "It's not that b-bad. I staunched it so I wouldn't get dizzy on the drive. It's almost stopped bleeding anyway." He looked down at the needle in his hand with a sudden flare of worry. "I'm sorry I took your supplies, I'll replace them from our kit once you're done with Dean. It's just—" Sam swallowed, and continued carefully, as though he were reciting a chant in an unfamiliar language. "It's important to Dean that I take care of my injuries right away because blood loss and infection are a serious long-term risk reducing both our chances of survival."
Bobby put a hand against the door frame, wondering wearily how Dean did it. Bobby didn't think he could deal with that kind of painstaking precision every day, not when he felt stuck in the doorway, no right to move closer, and an essential resistance in him to the idea of running away, leaving that kid to his pain. Not this time. Not even when Sam would only let one person help sew up his skin. "Need a hand with anything?
Sam shook his head, already leaning back over the sink. "It's fine. Please just make sure Dean's okay."
Bobby left, though it wasn't to watch Dean rest. Unless that idjit rolled off the couch, there wasn't a lot more Bobby could help with. He returned to the bathroom a moment later when he realized what Sam was missing.
Sam stared at the pills and glass of water uncomprehendingly, until Bobby said gently, "They're just painkillers, kid."
Sam shook his head. "No, thank you. It doesn't hurt that m-much. If you c-could step out, p-please, I'll only b-be a—" Sam paused to take a careful, almost pained breath, eyes focused on the corner of the bathroom next to Bobby. "I'll only be a minute."
"Oh, sure thing," Bobby said, and ducked out hastily, pills still in hand. He left the water glass behind, though.
When Sam came out, carrying his overshirt and the supplies in his good arm while keeping the other crooked close to his chest. Bobby did his best not to look at him, figuring any kind of attention wasn't what the kid wanted right now. Sam settled himself on the floor next to the couch and rested one hand lightly on Dean's wrist, curling his fingers over his pulse as though Dean's skin was as thin as cigarette paper.
Even drugged out and recovering from Bobby's patch-up job, Dean twitched, twisted his hand around until his fingers could grab feebly at Sam's, and murmured his name. Bobby knew he hadn't been meant to see the smile that flickered over Sam's face.
"You want to crash in the spare bedroom, Sam?" Bobby asked, when watching them curl their hands together became too uncomfortable. "It's all set. I get folks coming in here wounded all the time. You can catch a couple hours' sleep, check on him when you need to."
Sam glanced up at him, and then back down. "Can I..." he started, stopped, took a breath. "Would it be t-too m-much trouble for me to st-stay here? I w-won't block your way if you n-need to take care of the wound again o-or anything."
Bobby was pretty sure that if he needed to change the poultice or the stitches, Sam would bolt away as fast as he could. "No, that's fine, kid, you won't be in my way. I'll bring some blankets down at least, don't want you creaking around like me with my back. "
Bobby went upstairs and raided the faintly mothball-scented linen closet. Dammit, if Sam was going to sleep on the floor, injured—to be close to Dean—then the least Bobby could do was get him enough padding to be comfortable.
He brought down a sheet, a couple quilts and pillows, and a sleeping bag. Sam's eyes widened, and then when Bobby told him to move himself, he jumped up and stood behind the couch, one hand touching Dean's shoulder, until Bobby crouched painfully and started laying the bedding over the floor where he had been. Then Sam came around and helped, always careful to keep a few inches of space between them. In no time they had the sleeping bag, the sheet, and then the quilts laid out in a nice nest right next to Dean, whom Sam had covered with one of the blankets.
"You need anything else, Sam?" Bobby asked. He had realized, somewhere along the way, that he didn't use Sam's name much. He tended to even think of him as "the kid" or "poor sonuvabitch," because that's what he would be in Bobby's head as long as he remembered that day he'd walked away from that wretched kid in the interrogation room. But the kid had a name, and that was pretty damn important, and something he should make an effort to remember.
Sam shook his head. "No, I'm fine. Thank you, M-Mr. Singer."
Bobby nodded. "Okay. Call me if you need anything, or if Dean does." Sam was nodding again, turning back to Dean like a magnet inexorably to north, when Bobby reached out, slowly, and touched him on the arm. Sam froze, seeming not even to breathe. "I mean it, Sam. If you need anything, you let me know, got it? And call me Bobby, like everyone else does. I just feel old when you call me Mr. Singer."
Sam nodded. "Yes, s—Bobby. Got it. I will."
Bobby walked heavily up the stairs, his bones aching, dawn long gone and morning far enough along that the birds had given up singing in the daily business of worm hunting.
Sam was okay. It had taken Bobby a hell of a long time to believe that the boy meant no harm toward either Dean or himself, and secondly that he wasn't about to unintentionally combust the kitchen appliances, but he figured he was going to sleep just fine, without worrying about what might happen in the living room.
That afternoon, after catching a few hours of shut-eye, Bobby came downstairs quietly. The boys were asleep, Dean curled half on his stomach on the sofa, Sam huddled on his sleeping bag, one hand propped up against the couch. Dean had stretched down his hand to clasp Sam's. The sight sent an odd ache through Bobby's chest.
He didn't want to disturb them, but there was no way around to the kitchen without passing through the living room, not unless he wanted to slip through the lower-level window and circle around the house. Bobby kept his footsteps even and unhurried (he could be as quiet as the rest of them, but the real trick to not startling sleeping hunters and ending up with a face full of buckshot, was walking unconcerned),but his eyes stayed on their linked hands. Such a simple thing, and not something that he would have imagined those boys feeling comfortable doing in his house even a month ago.
He was just about to turn away to start making himself some breakfast when something caught his eye. An irregularity, some kind of pattern or design on Sam's inner forearm. On any other kid, Bobby'd figure it for a basic tattoo, but in his line of work, you didn't screw around with ritualistic body markings. There was too much power in symbols and runes for people in the business to mark themselves up in ways that could call evil to themselves instead of driving it away. And for Sam to have been allowed some kind of marking like that in camp...
Come to think of it, he'd never seen Sam in short sleeves. And it had been hot last time they'd visited, none of this Halloween chill in the air, and the kid had not once taken off his shirt or rolled up his sleeves. Curious—even if he knew as damn well as anybody what happened to the curious who investigated bumps in the night—he bent over to examine the mark more closely.
Nothing particularly significant about it; just a smiley face, a little larger than a silver dollar, made by an irregular series of dotted scar tissue against his pale skin. Burn scars.
Bobby jerked back, bile rising in his throat. He swallowed convulsively. There was no reason he should be surprised—he'd been in the fucking room, seen firsthand what they were doing to him.
But recalling an indistinct, half-repressed memory and seeing the evidence before him were two completely different socks in the gut.
Bobby forced himself to breathe, forced himself to stay quiet and back away back to the kitchen. Waking the boys up wouldn't change anything, wouldn't wipe those scars off of Sam's forearm or take away the nightmares that no doubt plagued him most nights.
So like the old man coward he was, he went to the kitchen, broke a couple of eggs harder than he had to, and sliced enough potatoes for all of them (because Dean not waking up wasn't an option, and he could understand now Dean's urge to feed the kid all the time; those bones under his skin were far too sharp even after several months of eating what Bobby could only assume had been hamburgers and fries).
Sam woke up while he was frying the potatoes. He lifted his head from the nest of pillows and blankets, and Bobby could see the flying wisps of his hair from where they'd been pressed into the couch. "Mister—Bobby? C-can I help with anything?"
"You can help me eat some of this," Bobby said.
Sam glanced at Dean and then back up. "I'm not—"
"You can bring it back down by Dean if you want." Bobby shrugged, feeling like he were working with a startled dog (dammit no this was a kid, even one who'd been beaten like a dog, didn't change that he was a kid), trying to keep all his movements easy and non-threatening. "I don't mind you sitting by the couch. But you should keep up your strength."
Sam nodded, as though he'd heard that before, came in to pick up his plate and fork with a quiet thank-you, and took his seat again in the living room. Bobby ate in the kitchen, put away what he'd made for Dean, and then went to his desk to do a little paperwork. Not that he kept very many records, but he still had to do his taxes like anyone, and it was better to keep up with the paperwork than get knifed by it in April.
Dean woke groggily as the sun was sinking, half thrashing on the couch before that jostled his ribs and he groaned.
Sam was up on his knees right away, touching Dean's shoulder, reaching for his hand. "Dean, you're okay, you're safe. I got you to B-Bobby's."
Dean's hand groped out, clasped the hand Sam offered him. "Sammy? You okay?"
The smile on Sam's face was small and sweet, and vulnerable enough that Bobby had to move back toward the kitchen, both to give them a little more space and so he had a good reason to look away. "I'm fine, Dean."
"You sure? I coulda sworn that sonuvabitch got you."
"Not bad," Sam said softly. "I took care of it."
"Took care of it, Sam, you gotta—"
"Dean, it's fine." Sam reached over and pushed his sleeve up. Bobby wasn't close enough to see the marks, but he assumed Sam was showing off the stitching. "Really, it's not that bad."
Dean traced the stitches with one finger and then, closing his eyes, clumsily patted Sam's shoulder. "Good boy."
Dean couldn't have seen it, his tone indicating that he was seconds away from falling back asleep, but Bobby saw Sam's flinch, the way he had to blink several times before taking in a breath and blowing it out. Bobby, watching, had to count slowly to twenty before he could relax his own grip on the kitchen faucet. They were in one hell of a better place from the last time he saw them, and Dean was still more out of it than in, but that didn't mean he wasn't up to a chat about his word choice when he could keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time. Not to mention a talk about how they'd been working a hunt practically in Bobby's backyard, for a monster they couldn't even ID, and never had the brains to call him for backup.
The rest of the night progressed pretty much the same as the afternoon had. Dean moved in and out of consciousness, Bobby checked the dressings twice just to make sure that the damn wound wasn't getting infected again, and Sam never left Dean's side longer than it took to go to the bathroom or go to the Impala to get his backpack.
When that last thing happened, Bobby figured Sam would go for a shower, or change, or start polishing a rifle the way Winchesters tended to when they didn't have much to do beside keep vigil at somebody's sickbed, but the pack remained closed even when Bobby went out back to feed the dogs and give himself a little breathing room.
When he returned to the living room, mud all over his pants from Buster's enthusiastic greeting, Sam was sitting cross-legged on the floor, the backpack half-open beside him, a large textbook spread over the hardwood floor, and a notebook balanced on his knee.
Bobby paused in the doorway, curious but mindful of the carefully maintained space between them. Sam had tensed ever so slightly at his entrance, though he hadn't raised his head or shown any other signs of acknowledgement. It wouldn't have been noticeable, if Bobby hadn't been watching for it. Balls, what a pussyfooting pair they made. Though that didn't mean he was going any closer without a good reason.
He squinted at the textbook's pages from where he stood. "That algebra you got there?"
Sam spread his hand flat over the glossy page, then rubbed out a spot that didn't exist. He didn't look up, speaking intently toward the pages of his book. "Dean—Dean got it for me, s-so I can l-learn. So, so I know what... It h-helps, too, for hunts and just, every day, so pe-people don't n-notice as much that I'm... and for Dean—if I know more—"
"That's a great idea," Bobby cut in. "Particularly if you like numbers and things. Dean could never sit still for it. Kid's lucky if he can figure a ten percent tip."
Sam's shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and he peeked up through his bangs, showing barely a glimpse of his eyes. "It's useful," he said softly, "but—I do like it." His gaze dropped again, hand moving restlessly across the page.
Bobby had to clear his throat when the silence stretched, not sure if they'd actually stopped talking about something or if the night had moved on without them. "Hey, I'm going to hit the hay. You staying down here again?"
Sam nodded down at the book, then looked up. "Do you m-mind if I stay u-up a bit? I'm not..." He gestured slightly toward the book in his lap, though whether that meant in the middle of a chapter or not wearing any pants, Bobby would have been hard pressed to guess cold.
"Nah, that's no problem. A light on down here won't bother me upstairs." He turned to go, but paused at the last moment. "He's gonna be okay, you know that, right, Sam?" Bobby hoped the kid didn't notice the hesitation before his name. He sure as hell did. "Dean'll be okay."
"Yes. Thank you."
"Yeah, well, least I could do." Bobby hesitated for another moment, and then knocked his hand against the door frame just lightly, combined courage and anger at himself in the motion. It may have been (but probably wasn't) his imagination that Sam jumped. "Goodnight, Sam."
Sam took a deep, careful breath. "Goodnight...Bobby."
That success probably shouldn't have also felt like a reproach.
Sam knew that injuries took time to heal. He had had enough experience with them to understand that, even though most injuries he got hunting with Dean weren't that bad, and even thinking about recovering after damage had been an impossible luxury in Freak Camp. But it was different, somehow, when it was Dean laid out over that couch, some discolored fluid seeping out of his leg and Sam incapable of stopping that, of fixing him.
Probably he would have been more terrified of Hunter Si—Bobby that first day if he hadn't been so terrified each time Dean took a slightly more labored breath or groaned from the pain of his wound. But as it was, he simply hadn't had the time to care about himself when Dean had been unconscious and incapable of taking care of himself.
Of course there had been bad spots. When Hu—Bobby had walked in on him in the bathroom, Sam had felt that his hand would shake enough to pull out the stitches he'd already put in place, and before he'd found the courage to bring out his books (the precious texts Dean had bought him, which every day made him feel like he knew more what was going on with reals, what they were used to and what they'd expect from him if he was going to pass as one of them), he'd had to go through every reason Dean had ever given him for why it was okay for him to be studying, why he thought it was a good idea.
Even though Bobby had never asked him why he was studying, why he was putting his freak hands all over the pages that were for reals' education, Sam still found it easier to breathe and focus knowing he had all those lines prepared in his head in case he had to recite it, clear and concise as the Dir—as Dean would want him to.
And it had been okay, while Dean was unconscious. But it was better, now that Dean had managed to make his way to the upstairs guest room to sleep through a night with his arm wrapped around Sam's shoulders, now that he was awake most of the time and laughing, trying to get Sam to give him the Impala's keys.
"C'mon, Sammy. I don't even feel it." Dean leaned over and bumped shoulders with Sam, who felt the pain radiate through his injured arm, but the contact wasn't nearly enough to pop the stitches, so he ignored it. He was finally sitting on the couch, after Dean had practically dragged him onto it with Bobby's tacit approval, and Sam was just enjoying the closeness, the reassurance, finally, that Dean was going to be all right.
"That's because of the pills, Dean."
"How do you know? Could be that I'm all better. How're we gonna know unless—"
"Bobby said no, Dean."
Dean beamed at him, and Sam felt proud under the tension he always felt when he argued, even with Dean. He hadn't even stuttered on Bobby's name that time. "Bobby said no," he repeated, "and he's got a lot more e-experience than us, and he's helping take care of us, so I think we o-ought to listen to him." Sam reached out and shoved Dean's shoulder—not hard, barely a brush of his fingertips, not even enough to leave an imprint in his shirt, but Dean rocked back laughing just the same and clumsily grabbed for Sam's fingers. "And you should li-listen to me, because you're on pain m-m-medication and I'm not."
Okay, he was stuttering more than he had on their recent hunts, but on the whole, he had felt none of the clawing fear that had infused every second of their last visit here. They had already been at Bobby's for longer than the last visit, and Sam hadn't had one panic attack. Although he had bumped Dean's fractured ribs while recoiling from a nightmare last night, and then ended up crying over Dean's white-lipped attempt to soothe him through the pain that he had caused, but. That could have happened anywhere. Not just in this house, with a hunter under the same roof, someone who could hurt Sam without a single recrimination—but wouldn't, Sam had to remember that, and it was getting easier every time Bobby carefully kept his distance when he came into the room. The important thing was that they were still at Bobby's on their third day, and here he was on the couch arguing with Dean, knowing that Bobby could hear every word from his desk in the study and yet not terrified he was about to be beaten for the form of disrespect Dean expected, encouraged, and smiled for.
Maybe someday the possibility wouldn't even linger in the back of his mind.
"Yeah, what's up with that," Dean muttered. "I dunno where you learned that whole stoic-Winchester, too-hardass-for-oxy act, or maybe you picked up a flask on the sly—"
"I did not," Sam protested, though he knew Dean was winding him up.
"—but it's just bullshit. You got six stitches in you, you're telling me they don't twinge?" Then Dean brightened. "Hey, that's right, you're not on the good stuff—you can drive us! See, I knew I was a genius for teaching you to drive."
"I am not driving you into town for an ice cream and beer run," Sam said flatly. "Bobby bought groceries yesterday, we have everything we need, including beer, which you are not allowed to drink yet. You don't need to end up ripping your stitches and damaging your ribs more than they already are. If you lean too hard against the Impala or overextend yourself in the g-grocery store, it'll put you back a whole day. We'll get ice cream and beer when we're ready, to celebrate."
Bobby's voice rumbled from the study. "At least one of you knuckleheads got some sense."
Sam flushed and dropped his eyes, even though Dean's face (what Sam could see of it from the corner of his vision) was amused and at ease. Fuck this. Fuck this fear. Dean reached one hand down to squeeze Sam's foot.
"Yeah," he said, maybe a little louder than necessary, and Sam felt grateful again, as he so often did beneath the anger at himself, "that's a real nice idea, 'cept there won't be much to celebrate if I end up croaking from boredom." Dean twirled the pill bottle from the end table, grinning up at Sam. "Come on, Sammy, I'm gonna fuse into the couch cushions here. If you're so set on cooping us up like a couple of fuzzy chickens, you ain't got a reason not to take your meds, right? And don't tell me that your arm doesn't hurt like a bitch. I'm high, not blind."
"I didn't say anything because it's healing," Sam said, with dignity. "And it doesn't hurt because I don't overwork it. Maybe if you tried that your knees wouldn't be in such bad shape."
"Well, looks like I'm gonna have to give it a try now, what with Nurse Sammy on my case." The words may have been chiding, but Dean's tone was teasing, and Sam knew that the more he 'sassed,' the less Dean would think about the pain in his side and leg.
So Sam sighed theatrically and snapped the biology textbook in his lap closed. "Okay. Since I'm mean enough to deprive you of ten miles of rough road, the least I can do is find something else for you to do. I could read to you? Or we can watch a movie or something."
Dean grinned, easing back down into the couch. "Nah, we've about burned out Bobby's DVD player. I'll let you have some book-time."
"So generous," Sam drawled, even though he was. Dean always was. He pulled The Outsiders from his backpack, rested his back against the opposite end of the couch with his legs carefully stretched alongside Dean's, the book arranged so that he could rest it on his bad arm and still turn the pages. "Okay," he said. "I'm going to start with the intro..."
That night, while Dean was in the bathroom, Sam spent a few minutes arranging the extra pillows he had gotten from the cupboard Bobby had shown him earlier. When Dean emerged, rubbing absently at his leg above his wound, he snorted in amusement when he saw the careful line of pillows down the center of the bed.
"You got an urge to make a pillow fort?"
Sam paused, searching his memory for the phrase, then looked questioningly at Dean.
"It's just a game kids play—building, uh, houses and stuff out of pillows." Dean approached slowly, studying the barricade of pillows. He was also, Sam knew, putting off the moment he'd have to carefully and painfully go from vertical to horizontal. "I'll give it a shot if you want, Sam, but I gotta say you're the one always telling me to take care of my banged-up ribs."
"No," Sam said, and gave the final pillow a pat. "This isn't a children's game, it's just—a little extra protection. In case I have another nightmare."
"Oh." Dean scratched his jaw. "Dude, it's a nice thought, but that's not gonna work."
Sam drooped, looking at his construction. He could admit that the pillows hadn't been a great idea, but it had been the best solution he could think of—other than him sleeping elsewhere. He had to squash the worry that he was selfish for not choosing or suggesting that option. He knew Dean wouldn't like that any more than he did; it wasn't just his vicious monster jealousy.
As always, Dean read him as easily as Sam read his books. "See, you may be okay with the cloud cover, but there's no way I'll get much rest with you out of reach." Dean sat gingerly on the bed, his face tightening into a grimace for a half-second, and Sam bit his lip in sympathy.
"We could—just try one?" Sam removed most of the pillows, stacking them on the chair on his side of the bed and leaving one long pillow down the middle.
"If it'll make you feel better." Dean leaned against the headboard. "Just don't be surprised if I toss it to the floor in the middle of the night. C'mere, Sam."
Sam moved closer, over the pillow median, legs curled up under him. Dean's fingers touched his hairline, moving over the curve of his cheek, to stroke a thumb under Sam's chin. Sam leaned into the touch, eyes half-closing.
"I'm gonna risk your elbows, 'cause it's worth it to me. I'd put up with a hell of a lot more pain than that to have you near me. You know that, right?" Dean's voice was low, with a barely-discernible huskiness to it that Sam could never miss. He felt a shiver run down his spine, and leaned closer. "Couldn't stop thinking about touching you all afternoon, 'specially when you were reading to me. Drove me crazy, stuck out there on Bobby's couch."
Sam's breath caught, and he lifted one hand to rest on Dean's shoulder. Even feeling that much of Dean's muscle and skin beneath his hand, through his shirt—that was enough to make Sam shiver, his heart pump harder, enough touch for the rest of the night if that was all that Dean would give him.
That wasn't all, though, that Dean would give him. It never was. Sam raised his eyes to meet Dean's, just as Dean tipped Sam's chin up for a kiss.
Some things in the real world got easier, requiring less thought and preparation (thumbing through a menu, flicking through channels on the TV, turning the key in the Impala, smiling at witnesses without letting the fear, the reality of other onto his face), leaving him less breathless, terrified, exhilarated, overwhelmed. Kissing Dean was never one of those things.
If anything, kissing was a fire that burned brighter each time, like between them Sam and Dean had a store of gasoline just waiting in their bones for the spark. Now Sam knew Dean's body like breathing, knew how his lips parted when he wanted Sam to press harder, knew the feel of Dean's hand against the small of his back pulling him close, knew how Dean groaned when he slid his hand behind Dean's neck and held them tight together. He had learned not just to open to Dean, to burn, but maybe even in his monster heart believe he had a right to this, to make Dean lean into his touch like Sam's hands were a fire too, that he could swipe his tongue into Dean's mouth once, twice, pulling back quick to tease and hear Dean moan in frustration. He knew the rhythm of how they pulled each other close, breaking apart only to hiss each other's names before falling together again.
He used to be afraid of this. The lessons of freaks that had gotten too close to reals were burned into his brain, his skin. It had been too much, too fast, too scary at first, and Dean had always broken off the kiss when Sam hesitated or began to panic, because Dean was perfect about the things Sam couldn't say.
Even though now Sam knew Dean wasn't perfect about everything the way Sam had once believed. Dean wasn't always great at following sound medical advice, even though he never failed to make sure Sam was "better safe than sorry." Sometimes he drank until he couldn't walk straight through a room without hitting a bed, much less watch out for himself in a bar. And as good as he was at hunting (one of the best, no one could deny it), he wasn't as good at research or interviewing. He demanded when he should have coaxed, kicked down the door when he should have waited. He couldn't always sit still long enough to hear out a witness when Sam could tell she could be coaxed into telling them what she had seen, if someone could be patient enough to wait out her fear. But even if Dean was not perfect, that was okay, because now he had Sam to help him, and Sam was learning, with every kiss, that someone could be perfect and not always do everything right.
Except Sam could not let this be the second night he hurt Dean, so he pulled away with a whimper of regret. "Dean, your ribs."
"Fuck 'em," Dean growled. "They'll still be there in the morning. I've got my priorities, okay. So just—get back here—"
Probably Sam should have said no. Dean was still healing, and Dean was stupid sometimes when it came to his own health (though never Sam's). But there was that selfish piece of Sam, always, that just wanted, and when Dean wanted him back, he couldn't say no. He didn't forget about Dean's injuries (couldn't, he could see them with his eyes closed, had had nightmares last night partially about those gaping wounds and Dean's head lolling sideways while the poison wormed through his veins), so his hands explored sure and firm everywhere safe from harm, running over Dean's arms and chest, then—more from instinct than conscious decision—he curled his fingers to lightly scratch his nails over Dean's chest, just above his nipples.
Dean broke from Sam's mouth with a gasp, his head falling against the headboard with a low thunk. "Fuck, Sam —" and Sam knew he had to do it again.
And he had to be closer, closer, none of this was enough. Yet he couldn't press against Dean completely, but Dean's thighs were still available, Sam couldn't hurt those, so he shifted to cross one leg over to straddle him—
In that instant, when the ache in his groin rippled up his spine and made him gasp, he realized what was wrong.
Dirty, dirty monster, nasty little freak-slut. Wrong and sick and fuck fuck fuck. "No!"
Sam threw himself off Dean, scrambling away, curled around his gut so Dean wouldn't see, so Dean wouldn't know.
"Sam—" Dean sounded bewildered, dazed, but Sam couldn't answer. He had pulled out of reach, to the edge of the bed, both hands pressed to his gut because he dared not move them lower. No, no, no, no. His body could not be doing this to him, this could not happen, Dean would never, should never forgive him, and especially not in Bobby's house.
"Fuck." Dean exhaled, reached for him, winced at the motion, and then tried again, one hand held out coaxingly, voice strained, though Sam could barely understand the words through the pounding in his skull. "Sam, man. What the hell happened, I didn't mean—look, can you—Sammy, please look at me—"
Sam couldn't. He couldn't move, he didn't dare, because Dean didn't seem to know, and if Sam looked up he might know; he might see the foul monster thoughts written large over Sam's face and then never again, and Sam was too much of a selfish freak to give up everything with one ill-advised look.
After a minute (maybe more, it was hard to tell with fear shaking him, the panic that Dean would touch him before he had gotten himself under control, that Dean would know what disgusting freak thing his body had done), Dean got up painfully and went back to the bathroom. Shakily, Sam stood and slipped beneath the sheet, curling around himself to wait. When Dean came back out, he just stopped by the bed for a minute, making no move toward his half.
"I'm sorry," Sam said into the bed. He hoped Dean could hear him. He felt utterly sick with himself. That had been one of the best experiences of his life, and he wasn't sure how he could let himself get that close again, wasn't sure how he could stop it from going wrong.
In the camp, it hadn't been a problem. This had never happened when he watched monsters blowing guards, or guards fuck monsters. The few times anything close had happened with his body (late at night in his cot, usually after a day Dean had visited and touched his face or back, so gentle and soft), it had been easy to will it away thinking about punishment, or Head Alley or Wednesdays. Easy enough to stop it when he was in pain, when he could dig his fingers into a bruise. But he couldn't see how he could be in pain while he was with Dean, and he didn't know how he could think about things like that while Dean was kissing him, and he knew that if he couldn't prevent it, if he couldn't force himself to stop it, then he couldn't let himself kiss Dean ever again. Both options were utterly, sickeningly unthinkable.
Dean eased himself down. Sam felt a pang, wondering if he'd hurt Dean again by throwing himself off, if once again Dean was in pain because Sam was just a stupid monster that wanted what it shouldn't. Dean exhaled, blinking and watching the ceiling for a while. Finally he turned his head. He looked so sad that Sam just wanted to burrow his head into the blankets and never see again. "Hey, Sam, don't worry about it." Dean shifted himself, and then, very cautiously, touched Sam's shoulder for the briefest of moments. Sam clamped down on the desire to follow after the quickly withdrawn touch. "Probably got a little heavy for Bobby's guest room. Sorry."
Sam made a noise he hoped Dean would take for agreement, and kept his head down and both his arms wrapped tight around the pillow he had laid between them.
The creak of a door, accompanied by soft footsteps, woke Dean; not instantly, but with the sort of slow-engine turnover that made it a real challenge to open his eyes more than halfway. It was good, waking up like that, because it meant he was somewhere instinct said he didn't need to worry about who might come in, didn't have to keep one hand on his knife and his other arm around his kid. Speaking of that, where was his kid?
That question was enough to get his eyes all the way open, but only to be answered by Sam, standing right in front of him, like the sweetest of fantasies (the G-rated ones, anyway), with a mug of coffee and a plate of something that smelled delicious.
Sam smiled at him, then set the mug and plate—of toast and jam with two pills on the side—on the bedside table. He looked good, happy and healthy, and Dean couldn't get the nagging worry out of his head as to why Sam was up and getting breakfast already, and why the place beside Dean on the bed was empty except for a forlorn not-Sam pillow pushed down by his knees, when most mornings when they didn't have to get going, Sam was all arms and nuzzles, tangling their legs together and only getting up with visible reluctance. But before Dean could say a word, Sam leaned over and kissed him quickly on the forehead, before turning and vanishing out the door.
For half a minute, Dean didn't move at all. That was not how this particular G-rated fantasy usually played out. The kiss was sweet, of course, like every time Sam touched his lips to him—though Dean couldn't remember Sam kissing him on the forehead before, and would have generally preferred the cheek if Sam really wasn't okay going for his mouth—but this whole thing with Sam not saying so much as good morning, not asking about Dean's ribs, and not sitting down on the bed with him as Dean ate and gulped his coffee and pills—no, no, that was really fucking not all right. It felt out-of-joint, off, like a shoulder on the edge of the socket, or like a nightmare where he couldn't put his baby's engine back together, no matter how hard he fiddled around with the pieces.
What the hell had happened last—
Oh.
The pillow gave it away, a silent accuser. Sam wasn't cuddling up to him because Sam hadn't stayed in his arms last night, because Dean got so fucked-up under the happy pills that he forgot all rules and boundaries. When he was sober, he could remember not to scare his kid or push past his comfort zone. Fuck it, when he was drunk he could catch a fucking clue that Sammy maybe didn't want Dean feeling him up when he'd put a big ol' pile of pillows between them. But when he was high, every single damn thing he knew went out the window. God damn it, Sam shouldn't be around him, shouldn't have to put up with that shit when Dean went into horndog mode without an ounce of control.
Everything considered, he was damn lucky to see his kid at all this morning, that Sam still brought him breakfast in bed and was the sweetest, kindest person he'd ever met. Dean really shouldn't expect Sam to stick around to sit by him, after last night.
By the time he'd dragged himself and his busted ribs into a sitting position, the coffee was lukewarm, so he drained it in a few swallows while he chowed down on the toast. He wasn't hungry, not really, not with his gut roiling in the combination of pain meds and shame, but Sam had made it for him (well, he guessed Bobby could have, but Sam had delivered it and Dean really really hoped Sam didn't feel obligated to bring him fucking meals) and fuck him if he was going to be ungrateful. As he ate, he weighed his options.
Any apology he made wouldn't do it justice. He'd fucked up, he'd been high, he'd pushed and he fucking hated himself for it again (fuck, this felt like a few months ago, just another day of Sam jerking away from him in fear and he'd thought they were fucking done with that, more fool him). Nothing he said could—should—make Sam feel safe around him, could repair all the trust and comfort they'd built in the last few weeks. And any apology that would be at all adequate would have to happen while Bobby wasn't in earshot, because Dean might love that man like an uncle, but this was between him and Sam.
But even with Bobby's presence and the lack of words, Dean still had to try to get out some admission of wrong and promises to do better, because that's what Sam deserved.
When he finally limped downstairs, he found Sam folded up on one end of the couch, absorbed in his textbooks like Dean had seen him almost every day since he'd given them to Sam. Or maybe he was purposefully burying himself now in books, so he wouldn't have to look up, touch, or interact with Dean.
Dean was about to sidle around toward Bobby's study—to give his kid some space, and also buy himself some time—when Sam looked up and offered him a small smile. Suddenly (and not just because his knees had gone weak in relief that Sam was looking at him), Dean couldn't go anywhere but the seat beside him. "Hey, Sammy."
Sam closed the book, but kept a couple fingers in the pages to mark his spot. "How are you feeling?"
"Oh, awesome, y'know." Dean sat gingerly on the couch, leaving a few inches of buffer between them. "How's your arm?"
Sam shrugged. "Hardly feel it."
"Well, that's good." Dean rubbed his knees, and glanced toward the study, where Bobby could be heard muttering into the phone, presumably to a hunter, about alternate entrances into a museum. "Look, Sammy...I'm not gonna deny that I want to talk about this about as much as I want my molars pulled, but I have to—I'm sorry. I'm damn sorry about what happened last night, and...it got out of hand. I let it get out of hand and that's my fault, it was stupid even to start when I was high as the Hindenburg, and I'm just...yeah, I'll...watch out for that, next time. And you watch me too, and you can always zip my ass into a sleeping bag, if I start weirding you out like that again."
Sam was staring at him in a way that forcibly reminded Dean of the painful early days, when Sam had looked at him most of the time like he was speaking gibberish. Unnerved, Dean ran a hand through his hair and resisted the urge to ask if he had jam on his nose.
"Dean..." Sam's eyes dropped, but not all the way to the floor. They fixed on some vague spot midway between their knees. "It wasn't your fault."
"Uh." Dean wondered if Sam had had the same night he had, or if this whole fucked-up mess was something he had hallucinated from too much oxy. Because Dean remembered grabbing Sam, groaning into his mouth, just wanting to get inside his skin like burning, and he had no idea how any of that would have triggered Sam and not been Dean's fault. It's not like Sam could have triggered himself. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure it was."
"No," Sam said, even quieter. "It wasn't."
Sam arguing with him was still novel enough to be surreal. Dean wasn't sure yet what to do with it, especially about something like this. He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again.
But Sam continued before he could get a thought out, low and rapid, eyes fixed away: "You d-don't have to watch out. I n-need to. But not for you, it's...not b-because of you, b-b-bec-c-c—"
"Sam...I'm not following, man."
Sam tightened his grip on his own hands in his lap, never lifting his eyes. And, fuck, he had gotten so much better in the last few months about eye contact when he talked to Dean. "I need to be...in control, Dean."
If this wasn't Sam he was talking to, Dean would suspect he was hearing a roundabout declaration of a dominance fetish. Which Dean could totally, totally get behind—but this was Sam, right, so yeah, not likely. That still left the thorny problem of what the hell Sam meant. He leaned in closer, pitching his voice as low as Sam's. "I'm not following here, Sammy. What do you want to be in control of? You gotta spell it out for me." Please say me, his traitorous brain thought, coupled with a really unhelpful image of Sam pushing him down on his back on the couch, pinning his wrists down and purring the answer into Dean's ear—
"Myself." Sam's fingers skittered a tight rhythm over his knuckles. "I have to...I can't l-let...w-won't let my own b-body..."
"What?" That was not where Dean had expected (or okay, wanted) this conversation to go, and a fucking awful, trainwreck suspicion was shredding his fantasy-image like salt through a spirit. "Sam, d'you—"
Bobby's timing was almost magic, the floorboards creaking under his familiar tread, and the man himself appearing in the doorway. Dean wasn't sure if he was pathetically grateful, or frustrated enough to shred some bandages just to give himself something to do with his hands. "Hey, Sam, I think I found a hit on that feathered snake you two scuffled with the other night. Would you take a gander at it, tell me if it's the one? I'm trying to get an updated territory map."
"Oh—" Sam looked up at Bobby, startled, then shot a questioning glance at Dean.
Dean forced a reassuring smile onto his face and jerked his head toward Bobby. "Go for it, not like I got that great a look at it."
Sam got up to follow Bobby into the study, and Dean leaned slowly into the couch, easing out a breath. They'd talk later. Really talk. Probably sometime after they left Bobby's. There wasn't much reason to rush (they weren't chasing a hunt, no one expected them anywhere), and this was one conversation that Dean wanted to have right, because whatever was going on in Sam's brilliant, twisted-up brain, Dean sure as hell didn't understand.
Hoped he didn't, anyway.
Bobby and Sam made chili together that afternoon, each chopping about half the ingredients. Sam's hands had been shaking at the start—not just because of the knife in his hand, in a hunter's house, but also because of the conversation—but Bobby hadn't criticized or even mentioned his slow, careful speed, for which he was grateful. If he'd cut himself, no power on earth could have kept Dean safely on the couch in the living room, and Sam just needed a little time when Dean wasn't hurting himself, or being hurt, because of Sam.
Bobby talked about what he called "his early bachelor days," times he'd succeeded and failed at cooking for himself, keeping the clutter in the house from overwhelming him. Sam grew more and more interested despite all the anxieties nagging at him, and even managed to ask a few shy, halting questions. Bobby listened patiently and answered as though Sam were a real, which amazed and terrified him.
And then when Sam went to check on Dean and let him know how long until dinner, he found Dean's face suffused in one of the warmest, happiest smiles Sam had ever seen on him. He'd seen it last, he thought, the day at the ocean. Completely shot down from what he'd been planning to say, he was just about to ask Dean exactly how high was he, when Dean raised his hands, beckoning Sam downwards.
Sam sat on the edge of the couch, and Dean slipped one hand through Sam's hair, coming to rest on the back of his neck. Sam dropped his head forward, his breath hitching.
He knew that look on Dean's face, the look in his heavy-lidded eyes. It meant that Dean wanted to kiss him. Other days, Dean would have pulled Sam down to him, laughing, his hands loose enough that Sam could pull away if he wanted, but now, even with that blissed-out smile on his face, Dean was holding back. Because of what had happened last night.
Even though Sam wanted to kiss him, to show Dean he didn't have to worry, Sam was still afraid of it happening again, his freak body rearing up to betray him. But the idea of disappointing Dean now, denying him something that brought that sweet smile to his face, was too much. And Bobby was just in the other room—he couldn't get carried away, surely.
So he leaned down, slowly and carefully, and rested his forehead against Dean's, until their gaze crisscrossed. Dean's hand squeezed the back of his neck tight, and Sam sucked in a shuddering breath before bringing his mouth to Dean's.
The kiss set off immediate, white-hot explosions through Sam's brain, silencing in one brush of lips and tongue all the worries buzzing in his brain just a moment ago, almost to the point where he forgot where he was, Bobby and the kitchen and the rest of the world fading away. When Dean finally let him go, Sam was breathless, bracing now for balance, light-headed, but still in control.
Dean had his hands on Sam's face, and he whispered—more like mouthed—"I am so fucking proud of you, baby," and then Sam's breath left him in an unsteady whoosh that was a half-laugh.
"You are so high," Sam said, leaning his head against the pillow above Dean, and Dean grinned, now, a little more like himself.
"Nah, I'm not. Well, okay, maybe a little. But I don't need any of it, not as long as I got you."
"Okay, Dean," Sam said, and squeezed Dean's hands. "Dinner'll be ready in half an hour."
Dinner was a slow, easy meal (Dean eating slowly because of his injuries, Sam careful of his manners, and Bobby matching their pace). Dean raved over the chili, Bobby quirked one side of his mouth, and Sam smiled quietly into his bowl.
Later, Dean moved back to the couch in the living room—Sam pushing him in that direction, Dean pretending the gentle hands on his shoulders were shoving him along, and laughing all the while—and Bobby and Sam washed up the bowls. Sam told him how he'd helped Pastor Jim bake bread, some of the best food he and Dean had had on the road.
The TV was running in the living room, a steady murmur of muted voices that changed in pitch and emotion as Dean flicked through the channels. Sam wasn't thinking about it as anything but background noise (Dean hadn't been watching television much these days, mostly watching Bobby's old action flicks when he wasn't sleeping or having Sam read to him) until, in one of the lulls in his and Bobby's conversation, he heard a name that made him freeze over the sink, a used glass clenched hard in his hand.
Campbell.
He wasn't sure if Bobby caught it too or if Sam's stillness gave it away, but the hunter turned toward him and gave the faucet handle a sharp twist. In the absence of running water or the clink of silverware, the smooth news anchor's voice popped in sharp relief.
"...when yesterday, in memory of the White House Massacre sixteen years ago, the President laid a wreath at Mary Campbell's statue before the hundreds of people who had come to pay their respects to our beloved— "
The announcer's voice cut off between one word and the next, the TV's flicker vanishing.
Without even being aware of it, Sam had turned toward Bobby, and saw an echo of his own rising horror on the hunter's face.
As though they had rehearsed the motion (though Sam wondered if Bobby was driven by his same panicked fear, or some wiser, more real reaction), both turned away from the sink and headed toward the living room doorway.
Dean, face pale and blank, was sitting stiffly on the couch, remote in hand. Both Bobby and Sam paused in the doorway, and, though he must have seen them in his peripheral vision, Dean gave no immediate sign of recognition, just continued staring at the black face of the TV. After several long seconds, he turned his head, as though in slow motion, and blinked up at them.
"I forgot," he said, and Sam had never seen him look so young, so confused and lost. "How the fuck does —" Then he abruptly shook his head, grimacing. When he looked up again, his eyes were sharp, mouth twisted as though he were trying to grin around freshly broken ribs. "You didn't happen to finish off that Jack, did you, Bobby?"
Sam drew in a breath, because Dean's pills were right there and Sam knew, like he knew the shape of a fist coming at his face, that the whiskey would be for washing them down, and he was just about to force out the word no, to ask that Dean stop, when Bobby made a slight gesture and Sam stopped with his mouth only half open. Bobby's movement hadn't been a threat, but more a warning, like Dean would use when they were heading deeper into a creature's lair and he wanted Sam to hold back until he could scout the way, so at least one of them wouldn't fall off the edge.
Bobby disappeared into the kitchen, while Sam pressed against the doorway, wishing desperately he could go forward, sit next to Dean, and utterly unable to. Dean wasn't looking at him. There was no way in hell he could want a freak sitting next to him (whatever he might say most of the time) , not as he remembered his mother who had died because of monsters like Sam. They had stolen her from Dean so long ago, long before they had ever met, and Sam—selfish, disgusting monster—was terrified of what might happen to himself, terrified that Dean might push him away forever, if he took the tiniest step forward now.
Then Bobby passed him, holding a tumbler with a few fingers' full of amber liquid. Dean tossed it back like it was nothing, a few droplets of water when he was dying of thirst. Sam shuddered and clung harder to the doorframe.
Bobby was standing by Dean, watching him, and he said something under his breath Sam couldn't hear, but Dean shook his head and fell back on the couch without opening his eyes. Bobby turned away. He walked slowly toward Sam, and Sam forced his eyes up, though it was a hell of a lot harder now than it had been just minutes before. He didn't belong here, in a hunter's house. He didn't belong anywhere but camp, that camp for freaks and monsters, didn't deserve anything but his bones cast in the fire, shouldn't—
"Don't leave him," Bobby said, and his voice was forceful, like he had to make sure Sam understood. "He needs someone right now." Then he glanced back at Dean and cleared his throat. "I've got a project going in the basement. I should...get back to that. Holler if you need anything."
Dean didn't reply, didn't move, didn't give the least sign he'd heard. Each of Bobby's steps down to the basement landed heavily, dejected thuds even as they grew almost too faint to hear. Sam inhaled deep, flexed his fingers, and stepped forward cautiously. His steps didn't sound like Bobby's, and he paused after each one, sure that Dean would know it was him, would turn around and tell him to get the hell away well before he reached the couch. But Dean didn't, until finally Sam was close enough to reach out and touch, if he had that kind of courage. Sam sank to the floor, wrapping his arms tight around his knees.
Bobby had told him not to leave Dean alone, and Bobby knew best, so Sam wouldn't leave, but he didn't know what he could do or say. Sam had learned how to bind Dean's wounds, to bring a smile to Dean's face, but this was Dean's mother, the mother who never, ever should have left him. The anniversary of her death had been yesterday, and neither of them had given a single thought about the date, and what it meant. This was a hurt Sam couldn't touch, that he could only sully and infect if he tried.
Then Dean's eyes opened, and he pushed himself up with difficulty, swinging his legs down beside Sam. Sam saw Dean lurch and waver, unsteady on his feet, and Sam scrambled to his feet, reaching to help on instinct, but Dean spoke without looking at him.
"I got it, Sam."
Sam slumped back against the base of the couch, his arms curling back around his legs. He watched as Dean limped—worse already than when he'd walked to the dinner table—into the kitchen. He heard the pantry door opening and closing, and then Dean limped back out, Bobby's half-empty whiskey bottle in hand. He passed Sam without glancing over, heading straight toward the guest room where he and Sam had spent the previous night.
Sam remained huddled by the sofa for a long time. He heard the minutes clicking by on the clock on the mantlepiece, saw the long hand move halfway around the face before he remembered, processed Bobby's instructions, before he could force himself to his feet.
He'd seen it time and time again: when Dean was very very hurt, he ran. He smiled and said it was fine, he batted Sam's hands back but never truly turned him away. This was just another kind of injury, another kind of wound. It still took a supreme act of will for Sam to pull away from the couch, and he stumbled badly on his first steps.
He found Dean passed out on top of the sheets, the empty bottle on the floor beside the bed. Sam swallowed, his breath hitching once, and then he crawled onto the bed beside Dean. Dean didn't so much as twitch. After another long minute listening to Dean breathe—he was still breathing, thank fuck, Sam hadn't failed him as much as he could have—Sam pressed his face into the pillow, fighting the urge to cry, useless freak tears from a useless freak who didn't know how to help the real he loved.