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Another chapter! Sorry it's taken me so long to update, I've been unexpectedly busy suddenly! Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I really do appreciate your comments :) Hopefully you guys like this…
Chapter 3
Dean drove randomly for a week, stopping each night at a different motel.
He fell into a routine almost by accident, his head still buzzing. He'd drive all day and then as dusk began to fall, he would locate the nearest motel, order the cheapest room available and then get Sam inside and laid out on the bed. The first thing he would do was take care of Sam, hooking him up to a fresh IV pack and making him as comfortable as possible. Then he would shower, eat the remainder of whatever he'd picked up during the day at nondescript gas stations, and curl up on the bed next to his brother. The no touching rule had gone flying out of the window on the first night, after Dean woke up in his own bed with heart pounding, terrified that his brother would somehow have disappeared while he wasn't looking.
John had phoned, sometimes only a few times a day, sometimes twenty times in an hour. Dean hadn't been able to work himself up to answering yet.
Sam still hadn't woken up. Once, in the twilight minutes between sleeping and waking, Dean thought he felt his brother move, just a quick rippling and flex of muscles under his cheek and palm. He'd sprung up like a fire had been lit under his ass, but Sam had looked the same as he always did and Dean had to assume he'd dreamt it.
He couldn't help the constant stream of mindless chatter falling from his lips. Dean didn't think he'd ever talked so much in his life. He told Sam about past hunts, about the times he'd missed whilst he was at Stanford, about things Dean remembered from when they were younger. Every once in a while he'd catch himself spilling some close-held secret or the other, something he'd sworn once upon a time never to tell another soul. Never that, the most important and closely-guarded secret, although it was on the tip of his tongue to spill more than once. But anything and everything else was whispered to his brother in the night, told in a hum of words on the road.
Dean woke up exactly a week after kidnapping his brother, slightly surprised to discover they were in Minnesota. He had no recollection of entering the state, only vague memories of booking the motel room.
Sam was warm beside him, a long line of heat pressed against his front. He smelt like soap and fabric softener, clean from the bath Dean had given him the previous day. If Sam was conscious, he'd have been mortified at having to be looked after like a baby, bathed and clothed and carried everywhere. Dean didn't find it embarrassing. It took him back to the months after their mother's death when John had been too caught up in his grief to think about anything else. Dean had taken care of baby Sammy then, and it had been the only thing that mattered to him. Sam relied on him, he couldn't just stop, he had to be responsible.
He pushed himself upright, looking down at Sam's serene face. A clump of hair was hanging in his eyes, caught up in his eyelashes as he blinked and Dean stroked a hand softly across his forehead, pushing it back.
"Morning Sammy. Sleep well?"
Dean stretched, feeling a few kinks pop in his spine. "Yeah, I slept pretty good. Had a weird dream. You were in it, and so was this chick I met in Philadelphia a few months back. You were eating Krispie Kreme's in the back of the Impala and tellin' her about the time I wet myself during that werewolf hunt when I was nine. Crazy."
A half-eaten pack of Twinkies lay on the table at the foot of the bed and Dean ate one whole, chewing with his mouth open. His cell phone vibrated on the wooden surface.
"Dad's calling again. Think he's still pissed?"
Sam blinked at the ceiling. Dean smirked as if Sam had answered. "Yeah, me too. But we gotta talk to him sometime, right?"
He pressed the button, lifting it to his ear. Before he could say anything, his dad started.
"Dean? Where the hell are you? What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Dad, I can explain…" Dean said softly.
"Where's Sam?"
"He's with me. He's fine."
"He's awake?"
"No, but he's fine." He could hear his father's heavy sigh, picturing him sitting in a motel room identical to Dean's own with his head in one hand.
"Dean. I'm not mad. I'm just worried. You need to come back now."
"Dad, I told you, Sammy's fine. You don't have to worry about him." Dean said, watching Sam's steady inhale-exhale under the overwashed motel blankets. The IV stand rested beside him, glinting silver in the light.
"It's not just Sam I'm worried about right now. Dean, your brother isn't fine. And you know it. I know it's hard to accept…"
"Accept? Accept what?" Dean said curtly, knowing he wouldn't like the answer.
"Accept that Sam might not get better…" Dean pressed his eyes closed, gritting his teeth. "Dean, you need to come to terms with the idea…" He snapped the phone shut on his father's half-finished sentence, holding down the power button until it shut off. The silence in the room was oppressing. Dean spun quickly, snatching up a towel from the floor.
In an overly cheerful voice he said "I'm gonna take a shower, okay Sammy? I'll leave the door open, if you need me…" His voice broke and he felt tears burning behind his eyes and clogging his throat, threatening to overwhelm him. His mouth shut with an audible snap and he strode into the bathroom.
Loading his brother into the car every morning was hard work. Dean always asked for the end room in the motel of the day so he could park the Impala as close as possible to the door. He had it down to an art now; up and ready to go at five each morning, pack his bare-minimum belongings into his duffle and haul it and the abundance of things Sam might possibly need in the case of some bizarre emergency into the trunk, whilst checking surreptitiously for anyone who might see him carrying an unconscious man around over his shoulder. If no one else was in sight, Sam was hustled into the front seat like a dirty secret. Dean had the entire process to a four minute-thirty five second mechanised schedule.
Once, as he'd been settling Sam against the car, ready to manoeuvre him into the seat, an old woman had poked her head out of the room next to theirs. Dean hadn't thought, had simply reacted on the instincts that had governed his life for as long as he could remember. He'd pulled his brother forward so it looked as if Sam was standing in the circle of his arms, his head resting gently on Dean's shoulder.
Dean had held the position for longer than necessary, closing his eyes and feeling Sam's soft breaths against the side of his neck like warm cloud-puffs. The last time he'd allowed himself to get so close, the last time he'd indulged himself with that which was off-limits, forbidden, had been almost seven years ago. Sam had broken his wrist and was crying for his brother, and nothing John could do would calm him down. Dean hated himself a little as he settled Sam in the front seat, finally.
Today's trip was no different, and Dean's mind was pointedly blocking out John's words which slipped to the forefront of his mind when he wasn't watching out for them.
Sam didn't look unhappy, he reasoned. His baby brother would always have the best possible care Dean could provide, John had to know that. There was no reason for them to go back to his dad. Big brother had it all covered, and Sammy was fine.
Dean started the car up and drove, heading toward the brightening horizon.
He couldn't sleep.
Dean lay blinking up at the ceiling of the motel du jour, conscious of the fact that his brother was doing the same thing beside him. He wondered what it was that Sam found so interesting about the view. From what he could see it was nothing special, just a blank off-white space, broken by tiny cracks in the paint and a stained patch of damp in the left corner of his vision.
After three motionless hours of mirroring his brother's behaviour for no good reason, Dean felt the uncontrollable urge to stand, to move, to get the heavy feeling out of his limbs and do something. But while part of him wanted to get up, apparently the bigger part was content to stay still. To keep looking for that hidden something that had Sam entranced and kept him from Dean. So he remained beside Sam, ignoring the low growl of his stomach and the dryness of his throat.
Until the back of his neck started to itch, followed shortly by his left shoulder blade. He sighed heavily.
"Guess you beat me at that game, Sammy." The words were mumbled and indistinct. Sam probably wouldn't be able to make out what he was saying. He didn't repeat himself.
Swinging his legs off the bed, he sat up. The sun had set hours ago, the curtains drawn to block out the streetlights from the road. Dean stumbled over to the light switch on the far wall, hitting it one-handed and bathing everything in a dirty glow of yellow light.
Sam looked exactly the same as he had when Dean carefully laid him out three hours before.
The IV pack was running low and Dean prepared another to replace it. There were seven remaining and mentally Dean tallied up the cost to buy more. The expense was more than he could afford. He'd already maxed out all but two of his fake credit cards, and the people he would have to see to buy medical supplies wouldn't take plastic anyway.
He considered going to find a bar, score some cash off a game. But he couldn't leave Sam alone. He had to be responsible for his brother.
Dean bit his lower lip, looking hard at Sam. What if John was right? What if Sam never improved?
His baby brother lay motionless on the musty floral bedspread as if he was a plaster body mould of himself, a hollow shadow.
Without meaning to, Dean reached a slightly shaky hand out to Sam, brushing across his forehead in the lightest of touches. Kneeling down carefully beside the bed, he stared for a second.
"Sam? You in there, kiddo?" No response, not that Dean had honestly expected one. Dean bit his lip harder. "Sammy, I need…I need you to…" What could he say? What could he possibly tell Sam that he hadn't already said a million times over in the last few weeks? His eyes felt hot and sore, as if the lids were lined with sand.
"Please. Sammy, please."
Sam didn't react at all, no matter how hard Dean scrutinised him. He took Sam's hand in his, squeezing it tightly between his fingers and trying to imagine he could feel Sam squeezing back. He gripped hard enough to whiten his knuckles, his fingers twitching with the stress on his muscles. For a second it almost worked.
He watched the slow and steady open-shut of Sam's eyes in growing desperation. John's words came back to him and he tried to ignore them. But they repeated over and over, louder and louder until Dean could practically see his father in the room with him.
Dean finally let his head fall forward. Moisture prickled at the corners of his eyes, leaked out and itched a path down his nose.
His other hand was still pressed against Sam's dry forehead and the contact was suddenly unbearable, hot like someone was holding his palm to a gas stove. He snatched it back, the force knocking him off balance and onto his backside on the rubbed-bare motel carpet.
The room, everything around him, it all smelled like sickness. It stunk of it, permeating his nose intolerably and Dean lurched to his feet and toward the door. He felt like he was on a ship in turbulent seas, everything around him rolling uncontrollably and he couldn't quite find his equilibrium. A hand on the doorknob felt like a lifeline and he wrenched it open, stumbling out and slamming it behind him.
The world seemed to calm down once he was out of the room. The cool night air felt good against his fever-sweaty skin and he breathed deeply, trying to cleanse the poison from his body.
A car drove past on the road, an old black Cadillac with the windows rolled down and country music floating out on the breeze. Dean tracked it with his gaze, wondering where it was going, who was driving it. It passed beyond a grey building, Dean's eyes catching and holding on the sight of the bar he'd driven past coming into the motel. A drink would be good right now. Or twenty.
He stepped off the porch, following the path in front of him with detached attention, marvelling at how it led right to the door of the bar. The windows were all lit up and the thump of music spilled out, a welcome Dean could understand. He pushed inside and was greeted by the scent of alcohol, the sight of drunken people, the grungy dimness he revelled in. A smile spread across his face, growing larger when the not-unpretty barmaid asked him what he'd like.
"Jack. Bring the bottle."
Dean couldn't remember how he got back to the motel room. Hell, he couldn't remember much at all after the first five shots, one after the other, coming as quick as he could pour them. What he did know was that somehow he had returned to his room, stripped down to his boxers and passed out on the bed. And now the sunlight was attacking his brain with the ferocity of several mauling bears.
He groaned loudly, winced at the new pain the noise brought, and reached blindly toward the nightstand, where his hand encountered a glass of water. He swallowed it down and then wondered how the hell he had the foresight to pour himself water in the condition he was in last night. Blinking it away, he closed his eyes again, rolled over and bumped into Sam.
Who was staring at him.
"Holy shit!"
He propelled himself form the bed and somehow managed to land on his feet.
Sam was lying in the same position Dean had left him in last night, except his head was tilted to the side and his eyes were razor sharp and seemed to be tracking every move Dean made with no emotion in them at all.
Dean stood between the two beds in the room, panting as if he'd been drowning and staring with wide eyes right back at his brother.
His mouth fell open a little way and he tried to say something, make sounds come out, anything. He settled for a squeak posing as a question that he hoped Sam would understand. But Sam didn't say anything and time was ticking past in what was either really slow seconds spread over days or hours cramped into one moment.
Dean was suddenly struck by the thought that maybe, maybe Sam wasn't awake at all. Maybe something had happened to him. He'd had a fit in the night, he'd woken up all alone and panicked and broken his neck. He'd died, he was dead right there on the sheets and Dean had been so drunk and out of his head and not here when Sam needed him and now his baby brother was dead, and god, it was all Dean's fault.
He choked on the air and fell forward, hand outstretched, feeling as if he'd stuck a knife into his own heart and was in the process of slowly ripping it free of his chest cavity.
His hand came into contact with Sam's face.
Sam's warm face.
Dean's heart started beating again triple time.
"Sam? Sammy?" He whispered as if he was in a church. Sam didn't say anything and Dean felt despair begin to replace panic. Before it could overtake him, he felt a twitch of muscles between the fingers splayed over Sam's cheek. Slowly Sam turned his head to face Dean, and it was like a chorus of angels had begun singing around them. "Sammy. Oh god."
Sam reached up with one arm and batted Dean's hand away. The blank expression didn't leave Sam's eyes as he feebly tried to push himself upright, shaky arms drained of their strength by months of inactivity. Dean knelt on the bed, both his hands reaching for his brother, helping him to a sitting position. Sam pushed him away.
"Sam? What's wrong? It's okay, it's me, you're okay now." He tried to touch Sam again, but his brother flinched away and Dean held both hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay, not touching." His words made him think unwillingly of his own rule, disregarded days ago. He leaned back on his heels, looking at Sam with a mix of awe and a creeping apprehension that he didn't like at all. Sam was okay. He was awake, he was moving. But something still wasn't right.
Dean frowned, tilting his head to one side and watching as Sam did the same. Almost as if his brother was surveying him, assessing with his gaze. He wasn't saying anything, wasn't even trying to speak. And his eyes still held that foreign look, that dead non-expression that had been aimed at the ceiling for months on end and now was aimed at Dean. It was like looking into the eyes of a shark.
"Sammy?" Sam didn't say a word.