Room to Breathe
By: Cheryl W.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.
Chapter 4
When the next motel came into sight, Sam contemplated driving by it, wanting to delay the two room division, forever if possible. Even as the thought came, it left. He could not risk the consequences if Dean perked up from his sleep just in time to see the motel fly by outside his window. With reluctance, Sam steered the Impala over the white line, its tires crunching the gravel of the parking lot.
Shooting a look to Dean, expecting his brother to stir, Sam grumbled silently, 'I should have kept going! He's still dead to the world.' Instantly, he cringed at his own poor choice of descriptions. How often could Dean skim the boundaries of death before he lost his precarious balance? Shaking off his dark thoughts, Sam pulled up to the office, put the car in park and cut the engine. Even the absence of his precious car's engine noise didn't jar Dean from sleep, sleep which Sam, hours before, had harped on Dean to take, which his stubborn brother had adamantly refused.
Now the thought of waking Dean so they could engage in a heated argument seemed utterly heartless to Sam. With the outside light of the motel shining into the car, Sam got his first good look at his brother since the bar fight and his chest tightened. Still slumped back against the seat, his head angled back to rest on the black leather, Dean's breath seemed loud in the silence of the car. And then there were the other things. The paleness of his face, the crease of pain that even in sleep still marred the skin under his eyes, the cut on his forehead that Dean had refused to let Sam stitch up, the blood on his bottom lip from tonight's fight and the hideous bruising that encompassed his right eye, marked the left side of his forehead, tainted the definition of his right cheekbone, and a smattering of color outlined his right jaw line. Sam swallowed hard as Dean's vulnerability slammed into him like a freight train, just like it had back in that hospital when Dean was dying.
To his relief and chagrin, it was not the sight of seeing Dean unmoving in that basement that flashed through his mind's eyes but instead he vividly remembered tonight's bar fight. His helplessness as the linebacker clamped his hand down on Dean's injured shoulder, furious at the blow that knocked his brother from the bar stool, Dean's agony nearly tangible to him as he watched Dean fall to his knees. Fury rose in Sam all over again. Those jerks in the bar had known Dean was hurt, the bruises on his face making his pain impossible to miss, and still they had sought to hurt him even more, had hurt him, without remorse or leniency or compassion. 'And I didn't stop them, not in time, not when it counted. Just like the Benders, my actions came too little, too late.' His own predicament of being locked in a cell forgotten, made a non issue. If he could move a cabinet with his mind to save his brother's life, why had he not been about to unlocked a blasted cage door!
But worse still than his repeated failure to protect Dean was the irrefutable knowledge that he had been at fault for his brother's injuries. He had left his brother alone in that basement, had even tossed him the Tazer that electrocuted him. Dean had gone into the Bender's lair to save him, had snuck over to the bar, injured as he was, just to escape from Sam's presence. And then to top it all off, Sam had thrown his brother's fear of being alone in his face with casual brutality.
'No wonder he's shutting you out,' Sam jeered to himself, 'that he wants a night to himself, without being saddled with you. Is that too much to ask? Can't you allow him that small reprieve!' But the little boy in him that was still Sammy refuted, 'he's had two nights without me. Why does he need… want more?'
Dean's earlier words came back to Sam, "three days…not eating…not sleeping", shaming the younger Winchester. He was acting like Dean had been out on the town, having a great time while he was held in a cage, waiting to be the next segment of National Geographic. In truth, Sam knew Dean had experienced the worst of the ordeal, his worry would have been boundless, his guilt unquenchable, his fears unmasked…making him vulnerable. All Sam had done was sit in a cage and wait, knowing with utter faith that Dean was looking for him, that his brother would find him, would save him. "Nothing's going to happen to you while I'm around," Dean's words ringing through his head like a soothing bedtime story, allowing him to drop off to sleep even as Dean had not been able to.
Now, his decision made, Sam got out of the car, quietly shutting the door behind him, looking inside, noting with mixed emotions that Dean hadn't stirred even at the creak of the door. Walking toward the office door, Sam ran a hand through his hair. He would give Dean the space he needed, the space he deserved. It was the least Sam thought he owed his brother.
"Two rooms…one on the first floor, one on the second," Sam told the clerk, hoping Dean would see the gesture as a sign that Sam respected his wishes, had no intention of hovering at a connecting door, listening to the sounds coming from the room beside him. If Dean wanted space, needed space, he would give it to him, even if it hurt Sam to the core.
"Here's the room key for the first floor," the clerk said, handing Sam one envelope containing an access card. "You want the second floor room above it?"
Sam shook his head and the clerk had the common sense to simply scan another card and hand him a second envelope with an access card. Now holding the two envelopes in his hand, Sam turned for the door took two steps before swinging around and stalking back to the counter. "Ahhhh…Could I get a second key for the first floor room?" he offered up no explanation and with a sigh, the clerk complied, handing him the second access card. Distractedly, Sam slipped the card inside his jeans pocket and walked out of the office.
Bending down as he approached the Impala, Sam could see Dean hadn't moved. For a moment he stood by the Impala, uncertain, then with a sigh, he climbed back behind the Impala, making no concession of the noise of his door slamming.
It was enough to break through Dean's sleep, blinking hard Dean started to do his standard roll of his shoulders to work out the kinks but a grimace of pain halted his routine. For a moment there he had forgotten, everything. And it felt so good, to be blissfully ignorant of his own failings, to his pain, to Sam's anger. Turning to the driver's side of the car, he saw the set of Sam's jaw as his brother brought the car to life and backed it around. Though his sleep had given him a reprieve, Dean deducted that his silence had apparently not done anything to implore Sam's hostility. His brother didn't spare him a look as he reparked the Impala in the western end of the parking lot.
Sam didn't have to look at Dean to know he was awake, to feel his eyes on him, to sense something was out of sync with the person he thought he knew better than anybody else in the world. Swallowing, he tried to moisten his dry throat without making it obvious. He didn't want to sound hurt, or angry or ..anything when he spoke. "You're in room seven," his voice lower than usual as he pulled the envelope from his shirt pocket with the room's access card. Holding out the envelope to Dean, his eyes forward, his head nodded toward the room right in front of the Impala. "Can you.." he began but Dean answered his inquiry bitterly.
"Yeah, Sam I can make it there without your help." Dean chastised himself for sounding angry, for being angry, for startling when Sam said pointedly "You're in room 7." Not we're in room 7, but you…alone. He had gotten what he asked for, what he had demanded…then why did he feel hurt and angry and like he wanted to cry. 'Because Sam didn't fight against the separation…apparently he wants away from me…even worse than I need my space away from him.' Turn around was fair play…but it hurt almost as much as the hot poker had. Opening the door, Dean, by sheer willpower, forced his hurting body out of the car, feeling reminiscent of the way he had struggled to achieve every movement, no matter how small, after his heart attack.
Repressing a sigh, Sam got out of the car, opened the back door of the Impala and retrieved their two bags and the computer. His eyes met Dean's over the roof of the car and he braced for an argument over who had the pleasure of carrying Dean's bag to the room. To his surprise, his brother looked away, closed the car door and walked the small distance to room seven. Some would argue it was too short a distance to gauge but Sam knew his brother's stride better than he knew his own, and what he had just witnessed wasn't it by a long shot.
Reaching the doorway, Dean was hard pressed not to lean against the frame like he had done when he went AWOL from the hospital. Instead he locked his knees together and struggled to slide the access card from the envelope, an envelope which was trembling in his left hand. Apprehension gripped him as he heard the door of the Impala shut, heard the crunch of his brother's footsteps on the gravel. He felt like he was trying to pick the handcuff lock again with the Bender's rumbling car heading his way. Seemingly at the last second, he managed to pull the card from the envelope and swipe it into the access lock. A green light glowed as Sam reached his side.
Sam had watched Dean pick complicated locks quicker than he had managed to get the access card into the room's lock. But he said nothing as Dean opened the door, his hand reaching out for his bag which Sam held in his right hand. Pulling the bag back, Sam stepped by Dean into the room, depositing his brother's bag onto the bed closest to the door. Turning around, Sam saw that Dean had halted just inside the room, his hand on the door knob. His eyes flickering away, Sam said, "I'm in room 15, upstairs to the left if you need anything," awkwardly feeling like a hotel porter.
Dean said nothing, could think of nothing appropriate to say.
Taking Dean's silence and unflinching stare as a dismissal, Sam stalked for the door, saying as he passed his brother, "Room's non-smoking," tapping on the non-smoking sign glued to the door as he turned to the left and made his way up the stairs to the second floor.
Feeling abandoned and outmaneuvered by his baby brother, Dean stepped fully inside the room and used his foot to swing the door closed. Pushing tired legs across the room, he stood by the bed, struggled a moment to unzip his bag one handedly. He didn't care that the night was still young, he was inclined to crawl into the bed and lose himself in sleep again, this time for a few hours. Searching for his "night attire" namely a t-shirt and his shorts, he pulled out a pair of jeans that would have needed rolled up three times and a preppy shirt he wouldn't be caught buried in. "Sam's," he sighed, not surprised at the mix up in clothing. When it was time to vacate a premise, packing etiquette wasn't a consideration, getting away was. Digging further into the bag, he withdrew a t-shirt but he froze as he unfolded it. It was his shirt, the name Metallica embossed on the front an easy give away. But the thing was, this shirt, a shirt that he had once claimed as his all time favorite article of clothing, had been MIA for years…four years to be exact.
SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN
Placing his laptop on the other bed, the bed that would remain painfully empty, Sam unceremoniously dropped his bag on the floor and flopped down on the bed by the door. The room felt quiet, too quiet. He could hear the hum of the electric appliances, could clearly make out the wind rustling the leaves outside, could feel the absence of the other bed even with his eyes closed.
'Don't sulk, Sammy,' Sam taunted, the voice in his head Dean's. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he reached over the edge of the bed and levered his bag onto the bedspread. It took him no less time than it had Dean to realize that he wasn't a great porter after all. His tip would be sadly lacking.
Relieved to have a purpose, any purpose, Sam began to separate his clothing from Dean's, creating two piles on his bed. He could image how Dean would have unpacked the bag, nailing Sam in the head with each article of clothing that was his brother's. The thought should have put a smile on Sam's face, a smirk at least, instead he visibly swallowed, trying to shut down his thoughts. But the next piece of clothing that he pulled from his bag seemed intent on annihilating his dodgy control.
Spreading his brother's shirt out on the bed, his fingers trembled as they brushed over the hole in the fabric… in the upper left shoulder. Clamping his eyes shut, Sam clutched the shirt brutally in his hands as if it were the garment that had betrayed his brother, had allowed him to be so cruelly wounded. 'No, I betrayed him, I let him be tortured,' he accused silently.
Without mercy his mind played the same scenes over and over again like a record that had kept skipping, again and again and again. His breath grew shallower as each image conjured up feelings that threatened to crush him from the inside out. The shock of finding Dean tied to that chair, hurt, bleeding, in pain, the revulsion at the smell of burned flesh that assaulted him as he knelt by his brother and set to work on untying him, the fury at the sight of the hole in his brother's shirt, his frustration at Dean's flippant explanation, 'Let's just say Pa Bender takes getting hot and bothered to a whole new level'.
And then there had been the tangle of emotions that had twisted Sam's heart and gut when he helped Dean remove his layer of shirts last night. His brother's top shirt, the shirt now clutched in Sam's hand, Sam had slipped from his brother's shoulders carefully, only eliciting a wince from Dean. Removal of the t-shirt underneath, the t-shirt that fused with his brother's skin…
Releasing his hold on the shirt, Sam bowed his head and linked his hands behind his neck. "No!" Sam growled lowly, attempting to cut off his mind's attempt to revisit that horror of seeing his brother's tortured flesh. But it was a vain hope; the images were imprinted on his soul. Sam gave a small cry mixed with anger, frustration and pain. He couldn't handle those memories, not now, not when he couldn't look over to the other bed and be reassured that his brother was alive, that he was not writhing in agony, was no longer sweat drenched and trembling under his hands, could hear his denials and brave words devised to vanquish his baby brother's fears.
As a kid, there had been a few times when Sam had cried at the sight of Dean's wounds, wounds too serious to be down played, too cruel to be accepted. Looking at the seared skin of his brother's shoulder last night, Sam had felt that urge to cry again. Dean, as perceptive as ever to his brother's emotions, had said what he always said, "Don't, Sammy. I'm alright."
And Sam had let it go, had stifled his emotions, had allowed Dean to throw up his barriers, had tended to his brother's shoulder stoically, having voiced his suggestion of going to a hospital only once. As pathetic as it was, Dean, by allowing him to tend to his wound, had kept Sam's fears in check, had eased some of his guilt, had unknowingly or even knowingly kept his brother from shattering into a thousand pieces.
Sam cursed himself now for not realizing what would come later, what cost he would have to pay for his peace of mind. It was inevitable that Dean's innate defenses would flare to life, causing him to brick up a wall between them. Sadly, it was so easily accomplished. Dean simply removed the first aid burn cream from the equation, thereby effectively eliminated Sam's means to aid him. And, congratulations, a wall was born.
Add to that recipe his reaction to Dean's insolence to his own pain, the bar fight, the unveiling of his brother's con and his own barb about being alone, Sam figured he had helped mortar ten inches to the depth of Dean's wall. "Great job, college boy," he growled, fighting again to quiet the notion that had gripped him in the motel office as he uttered "two rooms." The notion that the separation between he and Dean wouldn't just be for tonight, that it would be forever.
SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN
It was happening all over again. Somewhere Dean catalogued it as a nightmare but even that knowledge didn't lessen the strength of his reactions. He could smell the scent of blood, feel the ropes rip into his skin, was again drowning in the deluge of agony as the hot poker burned his flesh like it was newspaper. Then the poker hovered by his eye, ready to burn it from its socket. 'Let him do his worst! Scream all you want but don't pick Sam! Don't Pick Sam!' his mind coached but apparently it was not in control here. Nothing changed. He folded, he sold out his brother, he marked Sam for death with three simple words, "Pick the guy."
Somewhere inside, where his soul lingered, something in Dean flamed out. He knew what came next, he knew what he had sacrificed, who he had sacrificed. He offered no threats this time, no promises of revenge, could not hold back the shutter that went through him as the gunshot echoed in the night air. 'I killed Sam. Sam's dead because of me. I chose him…I sold out my own brother …to save my life…no, not even that, I sold him out to save my eye.'
Then a sound sent his head snapping up and his breath left him as Sam inexplicably lay at his feet, a bullet hole in the center of his chest welling blood, staining his t-shirt a darker hue than black, his eyes beseechingly on Dean, his lips forming 'Dean" even as his breath wheezed out of him barely breaking through the silence of the room. "Help me, Dean," Sam pleaded, his pain filled eyes searing into Dean's soul. "Save me."
Dean's breath came in gulps but he couldn't form words, nor could he look away from Sam. He didn't even start as familiar boots stopped by Sam's head, there was no surprise as the owner of the boots crouched down beside his brother and he saw the man's face was his own. There was no room for denials. This was no shapeshifter, no thought form, this was him, the him that was stripped bare of lies, of pretenses, of denials. Sam was oblivious to the Dean crouched down at his side, the only Dean he knew was before him, tied to a chair. Dean wanted to run from the hope in Sam's eyes, the faith, the love.
The Dean beside Sam shot a smirk to the imprisoned Dean. "Poor little Sammy. Putting all his faith in you." He snorted. "He doesn't get it, does he? He doesn't see what's right before his eyes." Pulling a gun, he leveled it at Sam whose world consisted only of his bound brother. "You're not going to save him," derision was in this Dean's voice, as his eyes bore into the true Dean. "You can't even save yourself! In the end, it's gonna be you who gets him killed." The armed Dean shrugged. "Why put yourself through the wait." His eyes never leaving his bound counterpart, he pulled the trigger with the confidence of a right decision made.
"Nooooooo!" Dean screamed from the depths of his soul.
When hands grasp his shoulders, it was like jolt of agony from the poker all over again. This time, however, no ropes prevented him from reacting. Unleashing his honed survival instincts, he gripped the knife under his pillow, surged off the bed and tackled his attacker, sending them both tumbling to the floor. With deadly intent he pressed his knife to his attacker's throat, his heart pounding in his chest, the despair and rage from his dream still thrumming through his nerves.
"Dean, it's Sam," Sam declared with gentle force, coaching himself to not swallow, wanting, needing to prevent himself from inadvertently jarring the knife at his throat, his eyes beseeching his brother to snap out it. "It was just a dream, Dean. You're Ok now," his voice quavered, not at the danger his brother presented to him, but at the anguish and pain he could see in Dean's glassy eyes.
His brother's pleading voice sliced through the haze in Dean's mind, allowing him to realize, in horror, that he was about to slit his own brother's throat. That it was Sam who he had pinned to the floor, whose neck he was holding the knife against, drawing a small amount of blood. Recoiling away, no longer straddling Sam, Dean staggered back, landing on the floor, his back against the bed, and in horror, he let the knife slip from his hand.
Instantly Sam sat up, worried eyes on Dean, and started to crawl to his brother. "Hey, are you alright?" he asked anxiously. He was unprepared when Dean skittered away from his touch, horrified green eyes flying to the thin line of blood on Sam's neck.
"You're bleeding, Sam," Dean choked out, self hatred brimming in his every cell, knowing he had hurt his brother…again.
"It's nothing, Dean," Sam reassured, crouching on the floor inches from his brother. He wanted to go to Dean but something in his brother's eyes made him afraid that the other man would flinch away from him again. Seeing Dean huddled on the floor, his face pale and bruised, his knees pulled up to his chest, rattled Sam's beliefs. Nothing had prepared him for the devastation of seeing Dean looking so young, so utterly vulnerable, so damaged.
His eyes dark, haunted as they met Sam's, Dean questioned, "Why are you here?" his voice low, confused.
Swallowing, Sam was uncertain what to say, his practiced speech having flown the coop as he entered to see Dean caught in the throes of a hellish nightmare.
With a glimmer of his normal impatience, Dean gruffly demanded, "Sam, what did you need?"
"You," Sam boldly confessed, tears shinning in his eyes as he spoke the truth that he had concealed so long in the depths of his soul. "I need you Dean."
TBC
Thanks for reading!
Cheryl W.
