A/N: Whoops! Sorry this took me so long… again.
PLEASE READ: I'm losing my direction on this one guys. I need your help! If you're up for sending me some prompts or ideas, I'd greatly appreciate it! Otherwise I'm probably going to wrap this story up pretty soon. Thank you all for sticking with me this far!
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing! I make no profit off of this. This is solely for my enjoyment and hopefully for the enjoyment of others! ;)
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Habit : a settled or regular tendency or practice, especially one that is hard to give up
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Sam's little stunt with the car landed him in the hospital for a total of three days. Bruised ribs, a minor concussion, and hairline fracture in his wrist. He didn't complain once about the pain he had to have been feeling as he lay silently in the hospital bed.
As he had the last time, Dean didn't leave Sam's side, cracking jokes and talking enough for the both of them.
The first night in the hospital, Dean and John had stood by Sam's bedside as the boy slept. Dean, eyes fixed to the lax face of his brother, asked, "I thought he was dead."
John knew that Dean was referencing Sam's kidnapper without a name being uttered. "I winged him. There were too many eyes, too many witnesses for me to outright kill a man without being put behind bars."
Dean blinked, but showed no other indication that he'd heard his father.
"But believe you me, son," John continued fervidly, "I wanted to. There's nothing I want more than for that sick son of a bitch to be rotting in a pine box six feet under for what he did to Sammy. But that's an issue we're going to have to table until Sam is more stable. He can't lose us right now and I don't want to lose him."
Dean's eyes slid sideways onto the man's face at John's heated words.
The accident had not only put Sam in the hospital, but also the two men who had been in the front seat.
The car had collided with the guardrail, still going way too fast to be safe. Stanley had been catapulted through the windshield and had flown through the air ike a rag doll. He was in the ICU and doctors were saying it didn't look good.
Ruben McCarthy had come away from the whole ordeal with nothing more than one broken arm and a busted leg to match. His room had a security detail posted outside, courtesy of the Sioux Falls County Sheriff's Department.
Two deputies came by Sam's room on the second day and asked if he was ready to give his statement. Of course, Sam didn't say yes. But he also didn't say no. In fact, he didn't say anything, as was his new norm.
As much as it broke John's heart, he knew that Sam had to talk to the police sooner rather than later. There was no way Sam was going to get past this whole ordeal with McCarthy still on the loose.
Dean sat on Sam's bed with the kid, shoulder to shoulder, as Sam laid out the horror he had endured for two and a half years. The abduction, every beating, all the nights of starvation, the endless terror that he would never see his family again.
Tears tracked down Sam's cheeks in endless streams as his family finally gained insight to the nightmares, a meaning to all the apologies, a reason for the anxiety.
Sam had endured hell. Mental and physical.
After the deputies had left, Dean had wordlessly bundled Sam into his arms, tears welling in his own eyes, but his face as stoic as ever.
Sam was discharged at noon on the third day with instructions to return for a follow up appointment in a few weeks.
John had thought that recounting what Sam had lived through would help the teen start to heal. If anything, it had made the situation that much worse.
If the youngest Winchester had been clingy before, it was nothing compared to how he was now.
His hand was permanently wrapped around his brother's bicep and the rule still stood: wherever Dean went, Sam went. If Dean had to go to the bathroom, he'd give Sam his treasured amulet to hold until he returned. Same deal for showering.
Dean had pushed the two twin beds together in their room to make bedtime easier. No sense in continually trying to cram the two growing boys into a frame that could barely fit one of them, let alone two.
John silently reflected on the situation as the weeks progressed. They were still practically force feeding the kid during meals and it was like pulling teeth trying to get Sam to talk. They hadn't made any headway on Sam recovery. If they had been going any slower they would've been going backwards.
John didn't remember much about his father, Henry Winchester, the man having walked out on his family before John really had a chance to know him. But what he did remember was that Papa Winchester had no time for tears. He didn't mollycoddle. He didn't baby.
He had no time for whining or complaining. Winchesters were a strong and proud breed; they learned to fend for themselves at an early age.
As John watched Sam's behavior over the weeks, he knew that what Sam needed right now was not to be pandered to. He needed to learn to face down his fears and get past them.
That night, as the Winchesters and Bobby were finishing up dinner, John asked to see Dean out in the hall. He ignored the look of panic welling in his youngest son's eyes as John made it clear that he wanted to see just Dean.
Bobby, bless him, jumped right in and took over Dean's vacated position.
"We'll be right back, Sam," Dean said, tousling his brother's hair gently.
John led the way into the lamplit hallway, one hand scrubbing over the stubble sprouting across his jaw. He waited for Dean to shut the doors to the kitchen before spinning on his heel to face his son.
Dean's eyebrows were pinched in curiosity, trepidation brimming in his eyes. "What?"
"Dean," John began, "we need to talk about Sam"
"What about Sam?" Dean matched his father's low tone.
John inhaled heavily. "Son, I appreciate what you're doing with your brother and I know he appreciates it too. But this isn't working."
Giving a confused shake of his head, Dean replied, "I– I don't understand. What's not working?"
"This," John gestured vaguely. "The mother hen-ing, the cosseting. It's not doing Sam any good and it's sure as hell not doing you any favors either. When was the last night you got a good night's sleep?"
"What does that matter?"
"It matters because I need you sharp! That thing that killed your mom is still out there. I's not going to slow down and wait for us while Sam gets back on his feet. And you catering to his every whim is not helping benefitting his condition at all!"
"This is about hunting?" Dean's voice was beginning to rise, temper boiling just beneath the surface.
"No, it's not about hunting!" John's own temper was chomping at the bit. "It's about the fact that you staying attached at the hip with Sam is not doing him any favors. He doesn't need to be patted on the head and praised every time he so much as opens his mouth. What he needs is to get his spine back, face down his fears."
Dean turned and walked away a few steps as his father talked, one hand running through his hair. He spun back around sharply at the last sentence.
"This is about hunting!"He said accusingly.
John suppressed a groan. "It's not about hu–"
"Then tell me, Dad," Dean said harshly, stalking forward until he was almost nose-to-nose with the older man. "Tell me. For what other reason could you possibly want him to "grow a spine", huh? Tell me!" He said, shoving at his father's chest.
"I want my son back!" Burst from John's mouth before he could control it. "I just want my son back," he said, quietly this time, glancing at the shock painted across his son's face. "Seeing this…this shell of Sammy… I hate it. I miss his excitement, his smile. Hell, I miss the way he questioned every order I gave him," John huffed ruefully.
He pinched a hand over his eyes, the weight of all that had happened feeling heavier than ever. John hadn't allowed himself to his voice to his feelings, choosing instead to stick to the Winchester way: stiff upper lip and soldier on.
"I want him back too, Dad," came Dean's soft voice. "But, right now, this is what Sammy needs. He needs to know he's not alone, that nothing's going to hurt him. That we're not going to let anything hurt him."
Releasing his eyes, John blinked rapidly. "He already knows that, Dean," he said just as softly. "And he isn't getting any better."
He leveled Dean with a stony stare. "I don't like it. You're not going to like it and Sam's going to like it even less, but this ends today."
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Sam peered through his bangs as his father and brother returned to the kitchen. John's face was stoic and fixed, his jaw set in a way that Sam knew brokered no argument.
His eyes shifted to Dean's face, observing the color high on his cheeks and the clenched jaw that rivaled John's own.
Putting it all together, he surmised that John had given an order and Dean didn't like it, if the yelling in the hall was anything to go off of.
Dean approached the side of the table where Bobby and Sam were sitting, waiting while Bobby vacated the seat before dropping down next to his brother. Sam quickly switched his grip from Bobby's shoulder to its standard place on Dean's arm.
Sam returned his gaze to the floor, feeling his elevated heart rate finally starting to calm now that Dean was back. With his eyes turned down, he missed the pointed look his dad directed across the table to his brother. He didn't notice the silent battle of wills that took place between the two.
What he did notice was when Dean placed his own hand over Sam's and gently pried loose Sam's grip.
The youngest Winchester's head instantly shot up, hand flying back to its position once Dean had let go. But once again, Dean worked his hand loose and placed it back in Sam's lap.
An almost whimper was rising in Sam's throat. What was Dean doing? Why did he keep removing his hand?
Wounded eyes sought comfort in the older boy's face as Sam's hand reached back out, but Dean's face was turned resolutely forward as his hand shot out and grasped Sam's around the wrist and forced it back down.
Tears were starting to burn at Sam's eyes. He cocked his head lightly and raised his hand, not reaching just yet, but ready.
"Dean?" He asked softly. Where was this coming from? What happened to the brother who never denied Sam any comfort? The one who never complained about having his younger brother practically joined to him at the hip?
A dreadful weight dropped into the pit of Sam's stomach. His worst fear was finally coming true.
Dean was finally tired of him. He was finally fed up with Sam's neediness, he desperation for protection.
Sam let his hand fall back into his lap limply, eyes brimming with unshed tears at the realization. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, trying desperately to silence the sob building in his chest.
Silent tears tracked down his cheeks as John spoke up from across the table.
"Sam, why don't you help me clean up the kitchen."
It wasn't a request.
Still keeping his lip trapped between his teeth, Sam rose from the seat and began to grab dishes from the table, counting on muscle memory to guide him around the kitchen as his vision was still blurred by tears.
He set the dishes in the sink and swept his sleeves across his face, ridding it of wetness only to have fresh tears ruin his work.
The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as he swallowed heavily upon hearing the retreating footsteps of Dean and Bobby. Sam barely registered his dad's presence beside him as he numbly cleaned the dishes and silverware.
The two Winchesters worked in silence until the kitchen had been returned to its former glory.
John took the dishrag out of Sam's hands and draped it over the sink. "Why don't you go find your brother?"
Sam didn't need to be told twice.
Quick steps carried him into the study where Bobby was parked behind his desk and Dean was seated on the sofa, the tv switched on to some auto show with the volume on low. Instinctually, Sam migrated to where Dean was sitting before he pulled up short.
Did Dean even want Sam to sit with him? Would he reject his as he had a few minutes ago?
Dean himself answered the questions be quietly opened his arm to free up a space for Sam by his side.
Once again, Sam didn't have to be told twice. He instantly dropped onto the couch and curled into Dean's side, tucking up his knees on the couch and curling one hand around the collar of Dean's shirt.
The churning in his stomach began to ease as Dean dropped his arm down around Sam's shoulders, pulling him close in a silently protective hug.
John wandered in eventually, pulling up a chair at Bobby's desk as the two hunters began to discuss some local monster occurrences in the area. Sam tuned out the sound of their voices and the sounds coming from the tv, only listening to the steady beat of Dean's heart beneath his ear.
They sat that way until the program ended. Dean switched it off with the remote and checked his watch, the readout boasting of the late hour.
Without having to look at Dean's watch or the wall clock, Sam knew it was getting late. A familiar weight was beginning to drag his eyelids shut. He inhaled sharply and blinked rapidly, trying to fend of the sleepy shroud settling over his body. He'd stay up until Dean was ready for bed.
Which, as it turned out, was now.
"You ready for bed, Sammy?" Dean said, leaning his head back to look into his brother's face.
Sam nodded sleepily and began to unfurl his legs in preparation to stand. Dean pushed up off the couch, Sam following quickly, and stretched lightly.
"Alright," he said through a yawn. "We're turning in."
John looked up at the announcement, eyes flicking over the pair as he sat back in his chair. "Sam, why don't you go ahead and head up? Dean'll be there in a minute."
Sam could feel Dean's body language shift from relaxed to attack in the span of one second.
"Dad–" There was a note of warning in Dean's voice, which, of course, John promptly ignored.
"Go, Sam," he said adamantly.
The stone of dread in his stomach was returning, but this time it brought its bestfriend: panic.
Sam never went anywhere by himself. Not since that awful day when he'd been taken. Not since he'd been taken twice.
He could feel his heart beating in his throat, making his voice come out a scarce whisper. "Dean?"
But Dean wasn't looking at him. His stony gaze was trained on their father who was staring back just as determinedly.
"Now, Sam." The sheer strength of John's voice made Sam wince and begin to back away. Sam could feel his hands beginning to tremble the farther away he got from his brother.
"Dean?" He tried again, but it was even softer this time, fear dampening his vocal cords and rendering them practically useless. His whole body flinched as John suddenly raised his voice.
"Samuel! Now!"
Sam practically fled the room, making it to the top of the stairs in record time. He threw open the door to his and Dean's bedroom and flung himself into the farthest corner of the room. Arms latched around legs automatically drawn to his chest. He released them immediately in favor of clamping his hands over his ears as shouting broke out below him.
He screwed his eyes shut, rocking back and forth slightly as the voices kicked up another notch. This wasn't a shouting match; it was a screaming match.
For the second time that day, tears slid out from under his eyelids unbidden, unwanted. But this time Sam didn't try to quell the sobs. They burst forth with horrible force, shaking his lean form with unrelenting fierceness.
Why did they have to yell? Was it his fault? What did he do wrong? Was he in trouble?
At the sudden cessation of voices, Sam held his breath, tremors still wracking his form. Booted footsteps could be heard on the staircase, stomping with ferocity.
Warning sirens blared throughout Sam's mind. He scrambled to his feet and practically threw himself into the closet, pulling the door shut behind him and immersing himself in the pitch black.
He ducked beneath the row of shirts and jackets, reaching the back wall and sliding down along it. Sam clamped his hands over his nose and mouth, silencing his breathing. They quickly became slick as tears had continued to pour from his eyes. But he didn't dare move his hands to swipe at the unwanted moisture.
The footsteps were in the hallway now, approaching rapidly. Sam screwed his eyes shut tightly and sent up a silent prayer that they would walk past the room.
But when was the last time his prayers had actually been answered?
"Sam?"
He instantly recognized it as Dean's voice. Relief flooded his body as he dropped his hands from his face and crawled towards the door. As he twisted the handle and slowly opened the door, he was struck with the realization of how stupid this must look.
Dean's eyes widened slightly in shock at seeing his brother emerging from the enclosed space.
Sam quickly swiped at the wetness on his cheeks, knowing he must look a sight. Surprisingly enough, Dean didn't comment on the state his brother was in. He crossed the space between them and wordlessly pulled Sam into a hug. Sam's arms came up reflexively to hug back, dropping his head onto Dean's shoulder.
"You okay?" Dean said softly.
The younger Winchester remained silent. They both knew the answer to that question.
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