I do not own either Sam or Dean, but the story is all mine.
Hi guys! Once again, thanks so much for all your awesome reviews. You guys really make my day! Keep up the reviews and I'll keep up the writing. Seems like a fair deal, huh? Anyway, enjoy this next installment.
Pulling the bandages away from the surgical wound, Dean gingerly fingered the edges. Several of the stitches had popped in Sam's latest episode and blood was now slowly seeping from the edges. It was not life threatening yet, but he definitely needed to get himself stitched up before he lost more blood.
By now, his knee was screaming at him, on the brink of collapse, and he more dragged it than limped as he left the bathroom and headed toward the door of their room. Checking on Sam as he passed, Dean determined that it would be safe just to run out to the car and grab the first-aid kit. Sam was far from OK, but for the time being he was quiet. He lay in the bed, curled up in a tight ball as he shivered violently. But the covers were kicked off, and sweat poured over his body in a perfect antithesis to the shivers.
"I'm just going to the car," Dean announced to the unresponsive form, realizing he was saying it more for himself than for Sam. "I'll be right back."
Easily finding the first aid kit in the glove box, Dean borrowed a few additional seconds to just sit and compose himself. Looking at his own shaking hands, he forced himself to take several deep breaths. Lack of food and blood loss, combined with moving in hyperspeed ever since waking up had him drained. He was exhausted.
Sam's screams pulled Dean from his moment of calm, and he quickly dragged himself from the car and tore into the room, first aid kit forgotten. He seemed to have gotten worse in the few minutes Dean had been gone. Sam was now literally drenched, head to toe, in sticky sweat. He writhed in agony, pushing against the cramps that plagued him and alternating that with tearing his nails across the now raw skin, fighting to give way to the invisible creatures crawling in and around the tissue. A runny nose, ignored for the more intense symptoms, left behind a disgusting trail of yellow mucus down the top lip. Glassy eyes stared at nothing, their only emotion pure, unadulterated anguish. And his words were barely distinguishable through the momentous sobs that wracked his spasming body.
"Dean!" he screamed. "Deeeeeeean! Please, I need them. You've gotta help me. Make it stop. Pleeease!" He cried, in among the wordless screams that seemed to have no distinguishable end.
Dean crossed the room to Sam's bed in three long strides, ignoring the fact that his leg felt like it would collapse on him any second now. He grabbed the boy's arms, pulling his trembling body against his own and wrapping strong arms tightly over Sam's weakened body. Tears threatened to fall from Dean's eyes, and it was sheer will that kept them at bay.
And then Sam pulled back, eyes becoming clear for a split second as he shut his mouth tightly. "I'm gonna be sick!" he cried, clamping a hand over his mouth and tearing into the bathroom. Before Dean could react, he heard the sounds of Sam emptying the contents of his stomach into the porcelain bowl that had claimed the pills just hours before.
He rushed to Sam, holding the long hair back with his braced hand and rubbing gentle circles on Sam's back with the other one. "Shhh," he soothed quietly. "It's OK. You're gonna be fine." The words did nothing for the younger Winchester, but Dean didn't know what else to say. He didn't know how else to help the boy. So he continued spouting words of comfort, calming himself if nothing else.
A sharp pain in his stomach reminded Dean of the task he'd abandoned to be at Sam's side, and he looked down. He'd never even replaced the bandage earlier, and his shirt was now stained red where the wound had continued to ooze. Silently, without Sam's notice, Dean reached around him and grabbed a handful of tissues. His stomach inadvertently shied away at the pressure Dean applied beneath his shirt, but he pressed harder, hoping to staunch the flow of blood without the need for stitches. There was no time for that.
Sam's stomach had emptied itself within the first few minutes, and he was now dry heaving, worsening the cramps. But he couldn't stop; the gag reflex wouldn't ease up even as he tried desperately to suck in the deep breaths Dean coaxed him take. He barely even heard the words coming from his brother's lips, his mind focusing on only one thing; accessing more drugs. They were his only salvation, the only way he could escape this nightmare that Dean was forcing him to remain in.
"Pleeeeease, Dean," he squealed, his tone teetering on the verge of femininity. Desperation was dangerously high in his words, his mind, his actions. The heaving finally let up, and he collapsed against Dean's chest, arms snaking around his brother's shoulders and neck. "I neeeeed my pills," he insisted, hints of the old puppy dog gaze pleading with Dean. "Just one. Just give me one. I'll be fine after that. I promise. Dean, please." Tears rolled uncontrollably down Sam's face as he bawled like a child who had lost his favorite toy.
But Dean held strong, shaking his head against Sam's pleas, refusing to make eye contact. He didn't want to see what Sam's eyes held. Didn't want to see the way the lack of drugs haunted the boy, filled him with anguish, pain, fear. "I'm not going to do that, Sam. You know I can't." It killed him to say it, because he was denying his brother the one thing that could make all this pain disappear. But he knew it would only be a temporary fix. Allowing Sam the escape he so desperately longed for would only contribute to his world spiraling out of control. This might be worse short term, but Dean knew it was the only way to make Sam better. I have to be strong!
Anguish turned to rage when Sam realized Dean wasn't about to answer his seemingly simple request and he brought the fists out, once again slamming them against Dean's chest. "I hate you!" Sam shrieked, tears raining down his tormented face. "I HATE YOU!"
Dean allowed it, silently internalizing the spiteful words spewing from Sam's mouth. He didn't even try to stop the pounding fists that brutalized his already destroyed body. Because he deserved it. Because it wasn't Sam who had allowed this addiction get the better of him, it was Dean. That was the power of addiction, right? That the person taking the drugs didn't realize there was a problem. Sam hadn't realized there was a problem. But Dean had. Dean had known something wasn't right. But instead of doing something about it, he had ignored the problems, telling himself that he preferred the new Sam to the old one. Telling himself that things were actually better. He'd pretended he didn't notice the differences in Sam that never would have happened without the use of drugs. He'd failed his brother. All of this was his fault, and for that, he deserved to be punished.
Pain laced Dean's slashed face as Sam's fists connected with the injured ribs and already bleeding wound on his belly, but he did nothing to stop the attack, and Sam was too far gone to realize what he was doing to his brother. The saving grace was not Sam's recognition of his actions, but rather his pure exhaustion from fighting against the withdrawal symptoms. Sam collapsed against Dean, the pounding action lessening and his whimpering quieting until all that was left was a blubbering shell of a person bawling into Dean's battered chest. Looking down at his fallen brother, Dean didn't even notice the tear that fell from his own eye onto Sam's shoulder.
And once again, Dean ran soothing fingers through his brother's mop of tangled, sweat-laden hair, whispering words of comfort, reassuring the boy that everything would be alright. Mustering up the last but of strength he had, Dean pulled Sam's limp body from the floor and guided him back to the room. Sam collapsed on the bed, sprawling in an awkward position across the already muddled bedspread. His eyes stayed wide open, sleep refusing to claim him, but they were glazed and unresponsive to Dean's actions as the older brother rearranged his splayed limbs into a more comfortable pose.
When Dean was satisfied that Sam was calm once more he retreated to his own bed, hand pressed firmly against his oozing wound. The nagging in his mind insisted that he try once again to retrieve the first aid kit from the car, but the weakness in his body won out, knowing he would never actually make it to the car before fatigue consumed him. Like Sam, Dean collapsed on the bed, renewing pain in his injured ribs. He froze, the only solution to alleviating his screaming body, and lay that way for several minutes as he listened to the weakened sobs from the other bed.
The fight was gone in him. He could no longer keep his heavy eyelids pried open, and Dean finally accepted defeat, groggily assuring himself that he would only close his eyes for a few minutes, before fully succumbing to the deep slumber.
A few minutes quickly became three hours and Dean's eyes shot open in a panic as he quickly sat up in bed before remembering his injuries. Bending over in agony, Dean clutched his chest and his eyes fell upon the drenched shirt he wore. His blood had continued to flow as he slept, and was now staining the entire front of the ACDC t-shirt, ruining it. Looking down on the bed, he could see a slight line of blood outlining where his body had laid. Shit. This is not good, he thought to himself, prying the shirt from his torso and pulling it gingerly over his head. Mercilessly, the wound had ceased its flow at some point, finally clotting over. He could only hope that the blood loss looked worse than it really was as he rooted through his duffle bag for a new t-shirt.
It was only as he pulled the new shirt over his head that Dean realized something was wrong in the room. He hadn't woken up on his own volition; no, he'd woken up to the sound of a door slamming shut. He looked over to Sam's bed, and his heart rose in his throat. Sam was gone.
