A/N:
I wrote this one in my lunch-break … thought I'd post it, since it's written … ?
Some time during Season 9 after Gadreel got expelled and Sam's not mad at Dean anymore.
I hope you enjoy this one ^^
Let me know what you think ?
Thinner
It's a Curse.
It's as simple as that. Or rather not THAT simple, since curses are rarely something easy to handle.
Well, at least they know what it is, that makes Sam sick.
That kind of he's-going-do-die-sick sick.
Dean's losing his shit already, and they're only getting started.
He hates witches. It's a lingering, deep hate, edging on … he doesn't know how to name it, but HATE definitely doesn't cover at all what he's currently feeling.
They are back at the bunker since two days now.
Sam still thinks he should've died. Should have – at least finished the last Trial.
But he hasn't.
Dean on the other hand is damn glad his little brother didn't.
Dean should've known, that no case ever turns out to be a milk run. A walk in the park. Ever.
And now, here they are.
Sam cursed – his guilt LITERALLY eating away at him.
Dean – scared shitless of losing Sam due unforeseen circumstances which brought them into this miserable situation – all over again.
And the witch. Though she's dead, her legacy lingers. She made sure, to drag at least one of the Winchesters down with her.
This curse – it's an ugly thing.
It's supposed to kill. Like most curses are.
But this one's the motherfucker of all curses.
The guilt the victims are packing is eating them up. Slowly but surely.
And who but not Sam Winchester himself got cursed by that bitch. Throwing himself in her line of fire recklessly.
That's one more reason, why Dean's currently pissed – and agitated – and sulky as fuck.
Dean's working the books over and over. Day and night, desperate to find something – anything – to at least get hints about how to avert the inevitable and break what wrathful spell the witch laid upon his kid-brother.
Sam doesn't look miserable YET. – Starving may takes its time – gladly.
So, they have leverage. – Not much, but hopefully enough, to end this before it gets ugly.
Sam's sitting at the opposite side of the table, nose buried in some ancient book they dug up in Room 7B this morning.
It's written in some weird language Dean's never heard of before – but Sam obviously recalls translating something like that at some point during their hunting-career.
His little brother's stomach grumbles – audible. Again.
Sam rubs absently over his belly and shifts in his chair, which causes Dean to look up and give his brother a swift once-over with his look.
There are definitely deepening lines of discomfort embedded all over Sam's face.
"You okay over there, Francis?", Dean asks.
He knows things look bad, but that doesn't mean that a little teasing would hurt. Besides, it might lighten up the darkness they are dragging themselves through nowadays.
"Stop starin' at me and keep reading.", Sam tells him absently without looking up.
"You hungry? I could get you something …", Dean trails off, when his gaze lands on Sam's hand which is currently holding one of the pages between two of his fingers – and they're trembling.
"Nah. Thanks.", Sam mumbles and skips a page further. His hand comes down at the corner of the next page. Shaky fingers pinch the page between them.
Dean hesitates, when his gaze lingers on Sam's hand a tick too long, so that Sam can feel him stare.
Hazel-green eyes dart up, and he catches Dean's gaze. "I'm fine. Really." Of course, Sam tries to reassure his big brother.
And he truly looks fine – somehow … for now …
Dean represses the urge to reach across the table and cover Sam's hand with his. Wrap him up in a fucking bear-hug. Tell him that he won't let anything bad happen to him. That he's going to take care of the curse and that they'll find a way to break it.
Sam's stomach makes another suspicious sound, which would usually let on, that he's hungry – or about to get hungry – as it sounds as if it's starting to digest itself.
Dean can't work like that.
Not with the sounds Sam's stomach is making, and with how he skips the pages with shaky hands.
Hands and fingers that look bonier today, as they've when shit started to get real for them.
If Sam wants it or not: He's supposed to eat.
So Dean gets up, tells Sam that he's back in a few, and vanishes in the kitchen.
He knows all about his little brother's healthy eating-habits, so he doesn't warm up the burger from yesterday, or the leftover pizza. Nope. He's mixing up salad in a bowl. Throws some tiny tomatoes in it too – and some canned tuna (for the sake of it anyway).
The dressing's a bit … well – so not Dean's case (if salad would ever be his case anyway). He checks on the shelves and cupboards to find the damn croutons Sam's always sprinkling over his girly food – and he eventually finds them at the very back.
Once he's done, he grabs a fork and returns with the bowl to the library, where Sam's still hoovering over the book, just like he's left him thirty minutes ago.
Without a word, Dean places the bowl and fork beside Sam.
His little brother peeks up and blinks at the bowl. Then at Dean, staring at him a bit confused.
"Eat.", Dean tells him – well, he doesn't quite tell him – it's more of a pleading order (if something like that exists).
Sam sighs and leans back, eying the bowl and its ingredients, then tilts his head to the side.
His belly makes a longing gurgle, when Sam reaches for the fork.
Dean pats Sam's shoulder and sits back down in his chair. "That's my boy."
Mission accomplished, Dean Winchester.
~ DW & SW ~
They don't stick with salad and all that healthy crap Sam's usually uses to stuff into himself. Dean went shopping, and got all the greasy, unhealthy, diabetes and cardiac-arrest causing food he could get his hands on. Things, Sam wouldn't eat in a lifetime, even if it'd be painted green and would smell like carrots and lettuce.
Speaking off biodegradable waste …
It doesn't reach out. – Not anymore at least.
This morning is the worst so far.
Sam sleeps in, and Dean lets him – he checks on him though first thing he does, before he even visits the bathroom.
When Sam comes into the kitchen, where Dean's sitting, reading through a leather-bound old book, he's wearing his pyjamas, The top is from his broad shoulders in a way that lets on that it's at least two sizes too big for him.
Sam's holding the waistband of his pants, obviously, so that it doesn't slip down and present his bare ass to his brother when he goes straight for the coffee-maker.
A plate with chocolate-cake rests on the table, where Sam usually sits while drinking his coffee.
"Good morning.", Sam grumbles and wipes over his face, as he makes his way towards his brother.
"Heya, Sammy.", Dean grumbles back – and even though he doesn't want to – can't bear to see his brother in the condition he is in right now – he looks up. Dean forces a smile on his lips which doesn't reach his eyes.
Dean doesn't ask how Sam's doing. Because he can see how he's doing. So, he spares Sam the need to lie.
"Found somethin'?", Sam asks, when he sits down and sips at his coffee.
Dean's gaze wanders from his brother to the cake and back up. Observing. Examining. Scrutinizing. Waiting for Sam to get a go on the damn cake.
He doesn't. – At least not instantly.
Then again – Dean understands. He guesses, his little brother has never eaten as much in such a short amount of time as he had the past week.
Something like disgust crosses Sam's face like a flash – nearly too short to be noticed – when he looks at the soft dark bakery sitting in front of him, waiting to be devoured.
"Nope. – Nothing." Dean answers with a deepening frown. … not yet.
Sam waves at Dean, and then at the book which is resting beside his big brother's elbow, to hand it to him.
Dean shakes his head and gestures at the cake.
He doesn't care that Sam's fed up with food. He doesn't care, that he doesn't want to have breakfast.
Sam needs to.
He is supposed to.
They have to speed down the process which causes Sam to lose weight. – Somehow.
Eating usually would help with the issue – Dean's not sure it does though, since it's a fucking curse.
But it makes Dean feel better – less useless anyway.
~ DW & SW ~
Two weeks and three days after their encounter with the witch …
… Sam starts to look like a fucking stickman.
No matter what and how much he eats, he's losing weight.
Rapidly.
Dean can't get a lead on how to break the curse.
Probably they shouldn't have beheaded the witch. Probably, they should have interrogated her. Made her spill how to reverse it …
Jesus Fucking Christ – Dean could kick himself for being that stupid.
He's watching his brother fade and waste away all over again.
There are a lot of things he can handle – he can bear – but not this. Not again. Never again.
So, he barely sleeps. Keeps himself doped up with coffee and energy drinks.
Currently, Sam's sitting on the couch, one blanket wrapped around his shoulders, the other one draped over his lap and feet.
He looks like fucking death himself, when he looks up through long bangs and addresses Dean who's approaching him with determined strides.
"Sam.", Dean says quietly, when he sits down at the far end of the couch.
"We need to talk.", Sam utters before his big brother can say something.
Fuck, Dean knows he had it coming. But he won't let Sam get there – not under his watch.
"Yes, we do." Dean clears his throat and shifts, so he's facing Sam, who cranes his neck like a freaking giraffe, to look at him. "About what keeps eating at you."
Sam frowns and cocks an eyebrow. – They actually know what keeps eating at him, but neither of them brought it up yet.
Dean knows that's not what Sam wants to talk about – or tell him. It doesn't matter.
Sam doesn't get to give him a farewell-speech to say his goodbyes before things take a turn for the worse.
"It's eating at you.", Dean starts, and he knows it's not a very good beginning for their conversation. – As it's obviously obvious.
Sam huffs out an amused laugh, when Dean points out the obvious.
"Listen." Dean continues and rises his hand when his little brother's about to talk up. "We both know why she chose you. We know that you're guilt-ridden as fuck. You don't ever forgive yourself shit that happens to us and the people around us."
Sam leans back with a sigh and stares into his lap. "I can't change that."
"You gotta try, man. – Nothing of what's happened is your fault. We've been played, used, possessed – we got killed and we did kill.", Dean continues.
"I let you rot in Purgatory.", Sam mentions, reminding his big brother of one of his greatest hits.
"You thought I'm dead and in heaven." Because they've been over that a million times already. Dean has forgiven him. Why can't Sam forgive himself?
"Doesn't matter. – I've let you down." Sam's judge and executioner in one, when it comes to his own failures. "'ve started the apocalypse. Got Kevin killed. – Got mom killed."
Sam sounds eerily calm when he speaks. – It let the hairs at Dean's back stand up.
"You didn't get anyone killed, Sam." It's somehow warning. Because Dean can't hear that crap anymore – and maybe because Sam knows that, he's keeping this kind of shit to himself nowadays instead of even try to talk about it with his brother.
"I did. – And we both know that." Sam's no one to argue with. He has his point whenever it comes to his own wrongs, and wouldn't allow anyone to put in a veto.
Not even Dean. Foremost not Dean.
"Kevin's on me. – I tricked you." Dean's been telling him that very fact over and over again - Sam dismisses it each time. So he does now.
"You wanna talk about all that with me … because?" Sam looks up, thin fingers entangled with the blanket. "You think it's going to make me feel less guilty? You think it's gonna break the curse or something?"
Dean growls. Sam can look right through him. – And sometimes that's just annoying. "What's wrong about trying to convince you, to not feel guilty?"
Sam shakes his head. "Nothing's wrong about it, Dean." He shrugs. "But … maybe you can't convince me."
Dean's frown deepens. There will be a way to convince his little brother to – at least partly – forgive himself and take some of the guilt from him. He'll be damned if there isn't.
"Sam. – There ain't no me if there ain't no you." Dean's kinda begging now. His eyes tear up, because he remembers the very last time he's said that very words to his little brother – reminding him of what's important.
"It's not like I want to die, you know?" Sam's toying with the blanket in his fingers again. "Not anymore at least …"
Dean sets his jaw in that way when he starts to get super-pissed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I thought it's all over. I thought I'd be at peace – for once. Or kind of at least … In case I'd end up in heaven – so to speak.", Sam says even more calmly now. "I … was thinking about it a very long time, Dean. I had a deal with death. – I'd stay dead."
Dean nods. He knows that. Little brother doesn't have to remind him of how close he got to lose the kid back then.
"What about now?"
"I'm back to fighting, aren't I?", Sam offers a tiny smile, when he squints at his brother. "I've tried to do this whole forgiving-myself thing. But it doesn't work."
"Maybe you don't try hard enough." Because Sam's supposed to fight at least as hard as he is. – And something tells him, that Sam isn't.
Sam gives his brother a reproachful look, the corners of his lips turn downwards when he trains his gaze back at his fingers and the blanket.
"Maybe … you think you deserve this.", Is what Dean's saying next – and the words just spill from his mouth, before he's overthinking them.
He hits dead-point.
Dean can see it in the way Sam's features change, how he's ducking his head and how he's hiding his eyes behind long hair, so Dean wouldn't see them tear up.
It breaks Dean's heart. Squeezes it. Tears it to shreds.
But he doesn't show any of it – not a bit.
He's the big brother here, and this heap of mess and hurt at the other end of the couch is his little brother. So, he sucks it up for their both sakes.
Until he can't …
… "Come here.", Dean's voice breaks when he pushes away from the couch's arm-lean and scoots towards Sam.
Sam's head jerks up and he sniffs when he looks over at his brother, who's opening his arms and holds them in an inviting gesture.
Sam moves – only hesitant. Long thin fingers uncurl from the blanket, and it seems as if it's taking him too long, because the very next moment, he feels arms wrap around his broad shoulders. Arms, that pull him close against a firm chest. A hand, which urges his head under Dean's chin.
It feels like home – and it's been so damn long since Sam felt that way.
They rarely come that close – except for when one of the both of them is about die.
Which – is about to happen – if they don't break the curse, he's reminding himself.
Sam's reluctant for long moments, before he gives into his brother's endearment.
"I don't wanna die.", he whispers into his brother's shirt.
"I know kiddo. – I know." Yeah, Dean knows – and he can't help the burn in his eyes and the tears slipping from it, when he cradles his little brother in his arms and holds onto him – as it's not only Sam's life on stake, but also his own.
~ DW & SW ~
Another week later …
… and Sam's too damn weak to leave his bed.
His little brother is a shadow of himself.
Whatever it is that's going on in the kid's brain, Dean knows it's nothing good.
It feels as if – whatever they're doing – it's only getting worse.
His little brother's room is littered with books. Some closed, some open.
It's pretty clear – Sam has to get rid of the guilt he's harboring of which he is so not letting go – to break the witch's curse.
Easier said than done …
Sam's fading – and as long as he himself won't let go, the curse won't let go of him either.
Dean's not so much the talkative guy. – But in this case, he's damn well spilling his guts whenever he's around Sam. Reminding him of the good things they've done. His little brother had done.
How much he needs him, and that he's going to be lost when Sam's not with him anymore.
It's practically a huge monumental row of chick-flick-moments lined up, which don't find an end at all.
Not until Sam finally sees. KNOWS.
So, Dean keeps on talking. Until his vocal chords are raw and aching.
He has the constant sting of tears behind his eyes since yesterday. Actually – all he wants – is to fucking break down and die alongside with his brother – if he doesn't get him to FINALLY understand that none of this fucking mess is his fault (well, maybe bits and pieces are his fault, but who is he to judge his brother for any of it, where he himself had done him wrong so many times?).
~ DW & SW ~
Sam – as the pain in the ass little brother he is - doesn't seem to want to forgive himself.
He's stubborn as hell, and annoys the living shit out of Dean.
Each and every single minute, 24/7.
"Why don't you forgive me?", comes Sam's weary question from somewhere beneath the covers, as he's wrapped himself up in a tight cocoon.
Dean's sitting in a chair, close to Sam's bed.
He cocks an eyebrow at the heap of fabric – he can't actually see Sam's face for that matter, but he can see the steady rise and fall of the cocoon.
"There's nothing to forgive." Dean's a bit confused by the question.
"There is.", comes his little brother's muffled voice.
"There's not." Dean straightens up in the chair, his frown digs deep lines into his forehead.
"Sure it is." Sam's annoying again – which causes Dean to pinch the bridge of his nose and to rub over his face.
"Kiddo … There's nothing I haven't forgiven you so far, is it?" Well, at least that's what Dean thinks. He's never said it out loud, but is it really necessary? After all Sam has to know that they're good and that there's nothing bad affecting their relationship anymore.
At least not since the entire Gadreel-Thing.
Again, Dean Winchester could kick himself for obviously being oblivious.
Of course, he's told Sam that nothing of this's his fault, and that he shouldn't feel guilty and all that.
But that's probably not what Sam needs to hear.
Maybe Sam can't forgive himself, because Dean never officially forgave his little brother any of his escapades.
But Sam should know, that Dean's not a heart-to-heart person. He should know that he's forgiven him as soon as Dean started to tease the living shit out of his little brother again and again and again …
Because that's the way how Dean Winchester shows forgiveness.
So, how could Sam know for sure?
Dean rises from the chair and crosses the few feet which separate him from the cocoon atop of the mattress. He sits down at its edge and lays his hand on where he figures is Sam's shoulder.
"Dude. – I've forgiven you everything. EVERYTHING. A long time ago.", Dean says – again, there's the sting of tears in his eyes he can't suppress nowadays, and it's – too – fucking annoying.
The cocoon sighs a breath of relief and eventually a wild mop of hair appears and an ashen face. Dark circles around hollow eyes. Cheekbones so defined, it forces a cold shiver down Dean's spine.
And Sam smiles.
He fucking smiles at him.
Doesn't he see where this is going? Doesn't he feel mad?
Obviously not – and that makes Dean angry. And somehow sad. But most of all its devasting.
Sam draws in a deep breath and exhales it slowly, when he let his eyes flutter close.
Dean thinks – for a moment – that that's it.
Sam's saying goodbye to him.
That's Sam's farewell-smile.
It's a long moment, until …
… until it seems as if Sam's skin starts to gleam.
Fucking gleam, like some Disney-Princess turning into a swan. Or rather the other way round – Dean's not quite sure which way the movie went – and if it was even a Disney-Princess … or was it Barbie?
Anyway. It doesn't matter right now.
Sam's definitely fucking gleaming and he's kinda sparkling too – Like Edward Cullen ( the friendly stalker-vamp next door) when he takes a sun-bath.
"Sam?" Dean's a bit hysterical, because, this means either the end of the curse or the end of Sam's life.
He prays it's not the latter. His hands find their way on the cocoon, and he tries to unwrap his little brother from all the covers and blankets he's rolled himself up in.
But dude – How did his death-sick little brother even manage to wrap himself up in all that crap? Besides, Dean wasn't aware that they've that many bedclothes …
Sam gasps and it sounds as if he's suffocating for mere seconds, what spurs Dean on to get him out of all those layer. He ponders to just cut the shit off of him. But as soon as the thought appears it vanishes again, as it would mean he'd have to leave Sam on his own, as he's not wearing a knife on him.
And he'd be damned if he'd let his little brother alone right the fuck now. – Not for a single moment.
No way that's going to happen.
So he tugs and pulls and shoves, and eventually, Sam remains in his over-sized pyjamas (that's not quite right, since Sam's under-sized, Dean figures).
Anyway, Sam's still gleaming and sparkling, but he's breathing.
And then, all of a sudden, Sam's back arches up and his eyes fly open, before his body sags back into the mattress and leaves him unconscious.
"Sammy!", Dean has his hands on his little brother the very second, searching with his fingertips for the kid's pulse.
He's breathing.
His pulse is thundering strong and steady against Dean's fingertips.
The older brother blinks and swallows past the lump in his throat.
First he doesn't want to, but then he slaps his little brother across the face. Kind of gentle at first. Then with a bit more force.
When it wouldn't let Sam rouse, Dean rolls his knuckles against his brother's sternum.
What does the trick.
Sam's eyes fly open, he gasps and sputters and sucks in frantic breaths as if he's been under water and starving for oxygen.
"Sam?" Because Dean can't say anything else. It's the only word that comes to his mind.
Sam blinks. Eyes frantically searching the room.
"I'm starvin'", he mumbles breathlessly and addresses his big brother.
What a bad choice of words anyway – Dean wants to say, but lets it slip.
"You okay? – What the fuck was that?", he asks, locking his gaze with Sam's.
His kid-brother looks at him questioning. "'m not dead … guess we've broke the curse?"
Dean wants to call him a smartass, but he doesn't.
Instead, he bows down, lungs for his little brother and wraps him into a tight hug.
Sam hugs him back – though it takes him a couple of seconds to wrap his mind around what he's just said.
"I'm hungry.", Sam mumbles into Dean's neck – still a bit breathless, "'s there any pie left?"
~ DW & SW ~
~The End~