I don not own Sam, Dean, or anything directly related to Supernatural, however, the story is all mine.
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Dean remained in the room alone, fuming, for another quarter hour before Sam slunk back in. He crossed to the bed and sat down, head bowed, eyes pointedly diverted from his brother's direction. The silence was deafening, but Dean used it to his advantage. Several minutes passed as he studied the boy. Saw him in a new light. Detected the same idiosyncracies in Sam that he'd noted for months, but this time applying the newly discovered explanation to them. How did I miss this? How the hell could I have sat beside him in the car for hours at a time, slept just feet away, fought side by side with him...and still failed to see how much pain he was in. If I'd just let him in. If I just talked to him. Maybe... But it was too late for maybe's. It was too late for what if's. The damage had been done. Sam was an addict.
Emotions alternated between anger, confusion, denial, and betrayal. He'd let Sam down. And in return, Sam had let him down. But Dean had to be strong. He had to hold it together; if not for himself, for Sam. To Dean, holding strong meant being firm. Demanding. Unrelenting. Detox was hard; Dean had understood that much from the doctor's explanation, and if Sam needed him to be the enemy in order to get him through this then that was exactly what he would become.
"Where'd you disappear to?" Dean questioned, his tone flat, unyielding.
Sam shrugged, his universal answer to everything. "Nowhere. I just needed air."
"You sure about that? You just went for air?"
It was the first time Sam looked up, and his eyes filled with anger as he finally looked at his brother. "Yes, Dean. I went for air. I felt like I was suffocating. Quit nagging, will you? You sound like an old woman."
Grasping the opportunity, Dean stared hard at his brother. He winced as he noted the accusatory tone in his own voice, but it couldn't be helped. "So you didn't sneak off somewhere to get yourself another fix." He didn't ask it, because it wasn't a question. He already knew the answer.
There was no mistaking the surprise in Sam's face. Somehow, he'd managed to convince himself that Dean would never find out, that he was impervious to his brother's acute sense of hunter's intuition. He'd been wrong. Sam quickly masked himself, drawing back from Dean and turning toward the wall. "I don't know what you're talking about," he lied, but even as he said it he could sense the shakiness in his voice. It was one thing to avoid the truth; to tell little white lies that skirted the facts. But blatant, all out lies...Sam had never been that good. Not with Dean. He might be able to lie to himself, but never to Dean.
"Sam, you have to talk to me about this," Dean prodded, the intensity and anger in his voice only slightly lessened by concern.
"I don't want to talk. I just want this nightmare to be over." He spoke to the wall, believing the drab whiteness to be more inviting. More understanding.
Dean rose to his feet, painfully testing the weight bearing capabilities of the inured knee. He didn't need crutches slowing him down. "You're gonna have to talk to me at some point. Because that's the only way you stand a chance to work through this."
Silence was the only answer he received, and it pissed Dean off to no end. "Get your stuff," he snapped, struggling with his jacket. The attempt was unsuccessful, and he finally just tossed the offending leather over his arm as he limped to the door. "We're leaving."
Sam scrambled from the bed, collecting his own jacket before stumbling after his brother. "Dean! Wait!" Fear laced his pleas, terrified that he would be left behind if he didn't keep up. "Stop. Please. I'm sorry! Dean, I'm sorry."
The release papers were waiting for them at the desk, and Dean scribbled an illegible signature on all the appropriate lines before continuing down the hall. He never turned, relying on blind faith that Sam was still following him. Even stoned, Sam was nothing if not predictable, and as Dean hammered the button to the ground floor the younger boy stepped meekly into the elevator. "I'm sorry, Dean," Sam repeated, but he might as well have been talking to himself for all the good it did.
"Save it, Sam!" Dean snapped, pounding his fist into the metal wall hard enough to leave a dent. "I don't want to hear it! You're not really sorry... You're just sorry you got caught."
That silenced him. Sam shrunk back, unsuccessfully attempting to blend in with the wall, chewing his bottom lip to the point of breaking skin. His head hung low, studying his shoes, his hands, the floor, anything that wasn't Dean. He only knew when Dean stepped from the elevator because he watched the blur of jeans cross his line of vision, and he followed like a beaten puppy. He didn't want to go; suspected what would come next; but he couldn't stop himself.
Dean limped painfully through the parking lot, tormenting his screaming body by matching his usual quick strides. There was no time to be injured, so he would simply ignore it. But within a few feet of the car his body finally retaliated, knees buckling, and he reached in front of him for something to steady himself with. It was Sam who actually caught him, linking arms quickly under Dean's armpits and righting him again, holding him steady for a few seconds before Dean felt steady enough to take over. For a split second he felt safe, secure in his brother's strong grasp. But that feeling was fleeting, and he soon remembered why it was necessary in the first place. Anger flared in Dean again and he shook free of the touch. "Get off me," he growled, storming the remaining feet to the car and wrenching the door open.
"Maybe I should drive," Sam offered weakly, more out of habit than desire. "You're hurt."
He reeled back when Dean glared at him, wicked laughter emerging from the depths of his brother's throat. "You honestly think I'm gonna let you drive my car?" Dean taunted, sliding painfully into the driver's seat. "How many of those little pills did you actually take, Sam? Because if you really thought I'd let you come even near the driver's seat you're more deluded than even I thought."
Sam flinched, sliding into the passenger seat without another word. His body hugged the door, pressing tightly in an effort to be as far away from Dean as he could get. Shaking arms encircled his body in a feeble attempt to shield himself from his brother's wrath. He closed his eyes tightly, and then reopened them. But the desired effect didn't come. He was still in the car with his angry brother. They were still on the way to a motel where God only knew what would happen. He was still addicted to the Codeine. And Dean still knew. This definitely wasn't a dream, but it sure as hell was a nightmare.
The black Impala swerved dangerously fast into the parking lot of the first motel Dean spotted. Brakes squealed, sending both Sam and himself flying forward as he came to a stop in front of the office. Dean rose painfully from the car, eyes locking on Sam. "Stay in the car!" he ordered, before slamming the door.
Wincing, Sam watched Dean walk away. He knew he was mad. If nothing else had told him, the door slamming confirmed it. Because Dean never slammed his car's door. Ever. To Dean, his precious car was more of an addiction than Codeine was to Sam. Dean wasn't just mad, he was furious. Sam's fight or flight instinct kicked in, and his hand went to the door handle, gripping it so hard his knuckles turned white and the curved metal pressed a dent into his skin. Maybe...if I could just run. He'll never catch me; he's hurt. But logic won out, and Sam stayed put. The look of pure rage in Dean's eyes had determined that for him long before he realized it himself. Because Sam knew, injured or not, that Dean would hunt him down and drag him kicking and screaming back to the hotel. And the consequences he would face from running were far worse than what he was about to encounter by staying. If he thought Dean was furious now, he didn't even want to think about what running would do to his brother's anger.
Inside the office, the young female clerk looked up from her book, obviously bored to tears. She cocked her head curiously as Dean entered, studying his battered appearance.
"What's the other guy look like?" she asked through a mouthful of bubble gum, grinning at he own joke as she cracked the gum on her tongue.
Dean laughed dryly, and then sneered at her. He didn't have time for some teenage teeny-bopper cracking jokes. "I need a room," he announced flatly, trying to look casual as he rested his arms on the counter that was, in acctuality, serving to hold him up. "Preferably one on the end of a row if you've got it."
The girl studied her monitor for a few seconds and then turned back to Dean, still chomping on her wad of gum. "I got room 17, second complex over. You paying with cash or credit?"
"Cash," Dean replied, pulling out a wad of bills from his back pocket. "I'll pay for a week." He selected several bills and laid them on the counter. After folding the remaining bills, he made to put them back in his pocket and then paused. Pulling the bills back out, Dean selected several more and set them beside the first stack. "Give me the room next to that one, too." Last thing I need is a bunch of nosey neighbors getting all up in our business. Doesn't concern them.
Taking a deep breath, Dean took the keys she handed him and pushed off from the counter, swaying for a second before he managed to steady himself. He took his time walking back to the car, far from eager to confront what awaited him out there. Only a few hours ago things were normal, at least in his mind, and now he was preparing himself for the battle of his life. Demons didn't scare him. Ghosts were practically innocuous to his hunting talents. But this...this terrified him.
Sam sat rigid in the car, practically in the exact same position he had been when Dean left. But he shrank back as his brother reentered the car, and Dean didn't miss the motion. He's scared of me. God, I hate that he's afraid of me. But, Dean still knew that that was the only way he would succeed. He knew that opening himself up to the emotions that he was fighting so hard to repress would mean he wouldn't be able to continue. If he let even the smallest hint of compassion or concern slip through his stoic mask the fight would be over, and Sam would win.
The car roared to life again, tearing around corners in the small parking lot as though it were on an obstacle course, and then slamming to another stop in front of their room. "Get out," Dean ordered, climbing from the car and circling to the trunk.
Too afraid to fight Dean's orders, Sam climbed hesitantly from the car and followed his brother. He reached into the trunk, grabbing his bag, but Dean's tight grip on his wrist stopped him. "Leave it. Just go wait at the door." The words were flat, spoken through clenched teeth, and Sam could sense Dean fighting with himself to remain calm.
So many thoughts and explanations floated through Sam's mind. He wanted to tell Dean that it wasn't his fault. He didn't do it on purpose. He didn't mean to become so dependent on the precious pills; they just helped so much. They helped him in ways that he couldn't help himself. Helped him in ways Dean couldn't help. And by the time he realized there was a problem, he was so deeply in that he couldn't pull himself back out. The only thing I did wrong was not tell you sooner! But those were words Dean wouldn't hear. His brother didn't want to hear them, and even if Sam tried to speak, he knew Dean wouldn't listen.
Dean carried the bags into the room, setting both of them on the first bed, but opening Sam's. "Where are they, Sam?" he demanded, digging through the bag. Clothes flew behind him, scattering haphazardly on the floor. Sam hung back, arms crossed against his chest as tears began to fall. "Sam! Tell me where they are!"
Fingers finally clenched around an old Vitamin C bottle, and Dean twisted the lid off, noting the collection of white pills in place of the expected orange ones. Tightening the lid, he tossed it on the bed beside the bag and plunged his hand back inside. "Are there more?" he screamed to a still mute Sam. But he didn't wait for an answer, instead recovering another bottle, this one for multivitamins. Inside, the same white pills had taken the place of what should have been gel capsules. He found three more bottles before he was satisfied, scooping up all five and bee-lining to the bathroom.
Sam finally found his voice as he realized what Dean intended to do with his salvation. "Dean, please! No, don't, please." His words came out in hiccoughed spurts, but the desperation was clear. Running after Dean, Sam grabbed his arm and tugged, pulling the older hunter off balance.
"Dammit, Sam, get off me," Dean spat, shaking his brother's trembling grip from his arm and balancing himself against the door frame. "This is for your own good. I'm doing this for you!"
Falling to his knees, Sam reached out again, this time grabbing Dean's shirt. Frantic sobs emitted from his heaving chest as he watched the first of the pills go into the toilet, swirling into oblivion as they were flushed down the drain. "Dean, please!" Sam screamed louder, tugging at Dean's shirt and hearing a ripping sound as his strength, fueled by desperation, separated the hem away from the rest of the cotton shirt.
Dean ignored it, the destruction of his clothing the least of his worries. He opened another bottle and dumped the contents into the porcelain pool, pressing the handle again, and watched the second supply of pills disappear. Sam's arms wrapped around his legs, bringing a new wave of pain to his injured knee, and Dean dropped, only just catching himself on the edge of the tub. Fiery eyes glared at his brother, shoving him mightily off screaming legs. As his grasp released itself from Dean, Sam fell to the floor, stunned.
But he was soon up again as he watched the third of the bottles empty into the toilet. Desperation went to the brink of peril, and Sam was soon scrabbling from the floor. Resigning himself to the fact that he would never pry the remaining bottles from his brother's hands, Sam went for the more obvious solution. He dove toward the filled bowl as Dean hit the flusher again, his hands plunging into the swirling water as he grabbed for the lifeline, clutching a few of the already dissolving pills in his hands before he was wrenched back from the toilet and thrown against the wall. "Sam! Dammit, get a hold of yourself!"
The Codeine demon had already possessed Sam's mind, though, and there was nothing for him to get control of. He was already lost. Sam pushed against Dean's hold, mind thoroughly set on retrieving the remaining pills, and Dean realized he had only one choice. As Sam continued to fight him, Dean let go, drawing his arm behind his head. "Please forgive me," he whispered as the fist let loose, connecting with a resounding thwack against the side of Sam's head, dropping the boy to the ground in an instant.
