A/N: Okay, so what is Sam doing in that last chapter? Let's find out... But before we do, a shout out to those reading and reviewing and as always to Gem, who alone is my sanity until this week is over and I am officially student-free for the summer!
Chapter Eight
Dean had just made the waitress giggle at the counter when he saw Sam exiting the bathroom out of the corner of his eye. Just as he turned to the girl to make his move, the sudden blurring movement of Sam's shirt distracted him. He looked toward his brother in time to see Sam lash out, squarely hitting another patron.
His first thought was for Sam's safety, but Sam was already on top of the man, pummeling away despite the man's clear submission. He did not doubt Sam had his reasons, but if his brother killed a business man in public, he would end up in jail, no matter what supernatural cause he had.
He was moving before he could think. "Sam!"
The man was flailing, pathetically trying to protect himself, and Sam's onslaught was vicious.
"Get him off me!" the man screamed.
Dean pulled at Sam, hoping to disentangle him before the other patrons took a swing at his kid brother. More men were rushing to help.
"Sam, stop!" he screamed again, but Sam seemed oblivious, bucking Dean's hold as they tripped backwards.
"What's his problem?" someone asked.
Another went to the fallen man.
"Sam! Stop it!" he tried again, ignoring the steadily aroused crowd.
Sam slowed and Dean sighed. His relief was short lived as Sam went unexpectedly slack in his arms.
He barely had time to brace Sam, and they both went down. Dean managed to soften Sam's boneless fall and cradle his limp brother awkwardly, too aware of the eyes drilling into him.
The crowd murmured in curiosity, worry, and anger. Dean tuned them out and focused on his brother. "Sammy?"
The other patrons would not be ignored. "What happened?"
The man Sam had struck was standing, nursing his cheek and a bloody nose. "The punk attacked me. For no reason."
"Yeah. Just went after him," another affirmed.
Dean looked up, his eyes flashing defensively. "Sam wouldn't do that."
"Like hell he wouldn't. We saw it. That's assault."
Dean did not like where this conversation was headed. He needed an escape and fast. With Sam out, he wouldn't be much good at making a run, but the unconsciousness offered another viable option. "Kid's suffering from a concussion," Dean said tersely. "We were in a fender bender this morning. Smacked his head."
"So?"
"So," Dean snapped. "Erratic behavior is a complication. He must have been released too early."
"Doesn't give him the right to go off."
"He didn't mean it, okay? It's not like him. I'm worried something's seriously wrong," Dean said, his voice hitching skillfully. He sought out the women in the crowd. "He just passed out." Dean didn't have to feign worry, but he knew how to play up the strengths of his story.
"Should I call an ambulance?" the waitress was kneeling next to him, touching his shoulder softly and gazing into Sam's face. "He looks awful."
Dean felt relieved. Her belief swayed the crowd. "He does look pretty pale," another said. delete "Sweating too."
Dean looked down and his stomach dropped, his temporary relief at being out of an assault charge fading. Sam was ghostly pale, drawn, dark circles under his eyes. And a sheen of sweat glistened on his face. "I got him. I think—"
"Honey, you shouldn't mess with head injuries."
Sam groaned, moving slightly in Dean's arms. Part of Dean was thrilled to see the response, but he hoped Sam's consciousness wouldn't blow the shoddy cover.
The crowd moved in, still watching to see the younger man's response.
Sam's eyelids fluttered, searching wildly as they opened. He came to full consciousness with a start, jerking in Dean's arms.
"Whoa, slow down, Sammy," Dean said softly, keeping his grip on his brother firm.
Sam blinked rapidly before his eyes focused on his brother's face. "Dean?" His voice was breathless.
"Yeah, kiddo. I'm here."
Sam was trembling. "What…what happened?"
"Took a fall, little brother," Dean replied. "How are you feeling?"
Sam glanced around, searching his surroundings. "I'm…I'm okay," Sam said, his voice shaky.
Dean was not convinced, but let Sam push weakly up from the floor. As Sam rose, he steadied him, watching him carefully.
Sam experienced a brief moment of disorientation before he seemed stable on his feet.
"Is he okay?" the waitress asked, moving closer again.
Dean was about to say, yeah, when Sam pulled away from him suddenly.
"It's him," Sam said, staring down the man he attacked who was now holding a bag of frozen peas to his swelling face.
The man glanced at his friend. "Look, kid, I don't want any trouble—"
"He—he had a gun," Sam said, reaching a hand out to brace himself against a booth.
The man rolled his eyes. "I don't have to sit here and take this."
Sam shook his head. "No. I saw it. He was going to—I couldn't—"
Dean glanced nervously at his brother. He wanted to believe Sam, to trust him. But he looked again at the man, donning a suit over his pencil thin body. His hands looked soft and white and his scalp reflected the light. He grinned out at the crowd. "Okay, Sam, let's just go lie down."
"The kid attacked me—" the man was getting irate.
"Maybe I should call that ambulance," the waitress said again.
Sam looked at his brother, saw the doubt in his brother's eyes. "Dean…"
It was a plea, a yearning to for acknowledgment. But Dean could not see how this man posed any threat, could not see any reason for Sam to attack him. He knew Sam had his reasons, that Sam probably had seen something, but that wasn't something to discuss in front of the crowd. The wild look in Sam's eyes was unfamiliar, and his brother looked nearly on the verge of collapse--again. "It's okay, Sammy," he whispered. "Let's go."
A moment of protest crossed Sam's face, but it was silenced by the somberness of Dean's face. Then his face fell, a look of defeated betrayal breaking over him. He allowed himself to be moved toward the door, the resistance gone from him.
The crowd, fully convinced of Sam's instability, let the brothers pass without a word.
They made it halfway down the street, Dean's hand still firmly on his arm, before Dean finally stopped his brother and looked at him, his face serious. "What went on back there?"
"I…he had a gun," Sam said, but his voice was quiet, uncertain.
"You don't just hit people for carrying guns, Sammy. It's backwater Utah. People carry guns here. Anyway, you don't just go off like that in public."
Sam's forehead creased in concentration. "He was going to use it, Dean. I saw him reach for it."
Dean wanted to believe him, wanted to take Sam at his word, but the behavior had been so erratic, so extreme. "Sam…"
"You have to believe me. I wouldn't—I mean, I would never just go off."
"So how do you explain it?"
"His eyes--he was possessed."
"Possessed? Sam, I saw the guy. He looked completely normal."
"Dean, I saw it. It was real."
"Sam, that guy has never held a gun I his life. And there were no signs of possession. Did you say Christo?"
Sam didn't take to Dean's logic. "You don't believe me?"
Dean hesitated. Maybe if the guy hadn't been so pathetic looking. Maybe if the place hadn't been so crowded. Maybe if Sam hadn't collapsed afterwards. Maybe if Sam didn't look so fragile. "Sam—"
"After all of this," Sam said. "After everything, you don't believe me."
"Sam, I know you saw something, okay? I know you believe what you saw. But, Sam—you haven't exactly been on your game lately. You've been sleepwalking, disappearing on me, not sleeping, and then you go off on some pencil pusher in a diner over lunch? You're not a hit-first-ask-questions-later kind of guy, Sammy."
Sam looked desperate, his eyes beseeching for some kind of understanding. "Dean…"
"Sam…"
"Please…"
Dean averted his brother's eyes. The desperate look in Sam's eyes threatened to weaken his resolve. "You need to get some rest, Sammy. Some real rest. Some real food."
There was no reply.
When Dean looked back up, he could see the defeat on his brother's face. His voice was soft. "Let's get you back to the motel."
Sam's chin wavered and his eyes were bright. His shoulders were slumped and he seemed to be barely standing.
"Sam?"
Sam blinked, swallowing with effort. "Yeah."
OOOOOOO
Sam had given in to Dean's near-order that he lay down and get some rest, recognizing the concern that laced his brother's angry tone and filled his flashing eyes. In truth, Sam was eager to escape from the events of the day--and from the knowledge that Dean hadn't believed him. That had been more painful than anything, that Dean had dismissed Sam's explanations, blaming them on fatigue and poor nutrition. He knew Dean hadn't meant to hurt him, but to have Dean look at him in that pitying way, as though Sam were someone to be comforted and helped, like some victim of one of their hunts...that had stung more than Sam cared to admit.
So it was actually a relief to burrow into the covers, his back to his brother, and pretend that Dean's disbelief hadn't started to undermine his own confidence in himself. It wasn't something they talked about--it wasn't something they needed to talk about--but they were each other's foundation. If Dean was truly starting to doubt him, how would he possibly have faith in himself?
