Title: The Art of Losing 2/3
A/N: Hope you all don't think I'm completely insane after sticking Sam on a rack in part one. This DOES have a point. I wouldn't put Sam through all this without reason. Well, maybe I would initially, but a plot and purposed developed as I went. Thanks as usual to Gem and Brenna. KTLA!
Disclaimer: I still own nothing
Summary: Because maybe winning isn't about what he gains, but about what he doesn't lose.
The Art of Losing
"Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master."
-"The Art of Losing," Elizabeth Bishop
PART TWO
Sam goes missing outside of a motel in southern Tennessee. They aren't on a hunt, just driving west while they look for something to track.
Dean is enjoying the down time, catching up in bars and pools halls, while Sam tags along. Sam gives Dean skeptical looks, but Dean sees that Sam appreciates less time cooped up in the Impala's too-small interior.
And it is good and peaceful and right.
Then, Tuesday morning, Sam goes to get some coffee.
He doesn't come back.
There is no trace, no hint, no sign. No Sam.
That single fact is his only reality. Nothing else matters until he gets Sam back.
OOO
Dean searches all Tuesday and into the night, until he crashes over the laptop in the wee hours of the early morning.
He awakens appalled at 8 AM and realizes that nothing has changed.
There is still no Sam.
His world doesn't function like that. It never really did. The years without Sam were long and awkward and undefined, a flux of selfhood. He fought and hustled and hunted, but didn't really live without his little brother by his side. Everything had just felt wrong. Even when everything was right--when he and Dad were hunting side by side, reading each other without a word, taking out the bad guys--there was a piece missing that made Dean feel totally incomplete.
It makes him angry that everything seems bent on taking Sam from him again. Not when he just got him back. He has promised himself that nothing will ever take Sam. Nothing evil, nothing good. Nothing. Sam is his.
But Sam is gone. And Dean doesn't know what to do.
OOO
If Sam were here, Dean knows the kid would find a clue. Sam has this way if seeing things Dean doesn't, of looking at things that Dean overlooks. Dean is good at running in, guns blazing, but he lacks the patience to really sniff out a trail. He prefers actions to investigation.
It's why they're a good team. They complement each other.
If Sam were here, he'd look pensive, make Dean eat, find a way to make a witness talk.
Dean shudders. Sam isn't here.
OOO
Dean still doesn't know how he actually found his lead, how it came to him, but somewhere during his search of the motel premises he found the trail, nearly imperceptible, almost nothing, but he followed it anyway.
After all, no one has seen anything, heard anything, or known anything. This is a quiet town, a simple town, and Dean can't sense that anyone is lying.
So it doesn't matter how small the trail is, how unlikely it is. He has to follow it.
Follows it into the night, down into the underbrush and toward the thickening of the woods in the mountains.
Follows it, praying that it isn't a waste, that he isn't following a dead trail for hours while his brother may be dying. May be dead.
He's a little hysterical by midnight, convinced that this is a pointless trail, that he may in fact be going in circles.
He's heading back, tears blinding him, when he stumbles over something.
He falls hard, his hands catching him against the damp ground and skinning painfully against the rocks.
He kicks in frustration at the impediment until he sees what it is.
Sam's jacket.
Holding it in his hands, he cries into it, smelling it, pulling it in, making sure it's real, it's Sam's, it's real.
In his nostrils, the scent is so Sam, so real, so pervasive, the he sobs some more at the sheer relief of it all.
OOO
He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he jerks awake when the sun is low in the sky. His stomach grumbles and his body aches, but he pushes himself up anyway, a little uncertain as to where he is or why.
The woods look foreign to him, and in the distance he can still hear the noises of the highway.
Sam.
It's morning again. Sam has been gone two days.
With new resolve, he fumbles after the trail with new vigor, promising that Sam will be gone no longer.
OOO
It's a mine.
Abandoned by the looks of it, but certainly not completely decrepit.
And certainly not completely abandoned either, Dean reminds himself.
Dean almost laughs--it's a mine not a mile from the road, not five miles from his motel. He's holding Sam's jacket, following a trail he's not sure he could piece together again, and his brother has been missing for over two days.
He's afraid and hopeful and afraid to be hopeful. He needs to find Sam, wants to find Sam, but not sure he wants to find Sam here.
It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Just Sam.
Dean goes inside.
OOO
He's cautious but hardly slow. He's nearly numb as he charges forward, fully prepared to kill anything that tries to stop him.
But there's no one there. Some raggedy furniture, some empty cans and the cave goes deeper and deeper and deeper.
OOO
It takes him down through thin tunnels, so tight that his head spins with claustrophobia. But he keeps going.
And then it opens.
Two bare bulbs adorn the wall on the entryway.
There is a table and a chair, but both look unusable and old.
The air is musty and tepid.
His eyes wander on.
Then he sees the table, the one in the middle of the room.
There's someone on the table, pulled tightly by shackles on both ends. When Dean gets closer, he can see the machinery and his stomach twists.
He forces himself forward and sees the long body. The muscles have been stretched so far they look almost flat and formless. It's a man and he is almost naked, and probably should be given the stained underwear. The dark hair is shaggy and greasy, slicked with sweat and something Dean can't identify.
Dean hovers over him, gaping at the damage. He can tell just by looking that the shoulders are dislocated and one of the knees doesn't look right either.
And Dean knows it's Sam, knows logically this is his brother, but he can't move, can't touch him...
He doesn't look like Sam.
He doesn't even look alive.
His fingers are shaking as he reaches out and turns Sam's face toward him. Sam's head rolls without resistance and Dean smoothes back Sam's hair. "Sammy?"
His stomach drops, bottoms out, and for a second Dean thinks he's going to be sick.
He has to get Sam off the table. He has to get Sam off the table now. He doesn't know how long Sam has been there, but he knows with acute clarity just how long Sam has been missing and he knows however much time Sam has spent chained on that contraption has been too long.
But how? Dean doesn't even know where to begin. He moves to the shackles on Sam's hands and can't see past the blood. Sam's wrists are raw and abraded from the shackles digging in and pulling him tight.
His instincts are screaming and his heart breaks. He wants to clean the blood, fix the wounds, but he can't, not until Sam is released.
He has to loosen the chains. Sam is completely immobile--any move while Sam is still drawn so tight could have devastating damage to Sam's already strained body.
Dean is shaking as he maneuvers the pick into the first lock. The entire contraption shakes, clattering metallically, and for a second, Dean fears that he has set it off to move again. From the table, Sam groans, and Dean's heart catches in his throat.
"Just hang on, Sammy," he says. "Hang on."
Sam says nothing more and the table shudders as the shackle releases Sam's arm. As the limb slackens, Dean realizes with sickening clarity just how taut Sam had been pulled.
The movement rouses Sam, who whimpers back into consciousness. A garbled sound escapes his lips, and Dean feels himself start to cry.
"It's okay," he mutters, moving to the second shackle. "It's okay."
When Sam's second arm comes loose, Sam seems to sigh, almost deflating.
Dean can hardly see as he undoes the shackles at Sam's ankles. He has to get Sam out, get Sam free, get Sam safe.
The last shackle pops open, Dean drops his tools, gently pulling Sam's foot free. But as Dean steps back to examine his rescue, he feels sick.
His brother's arms and legs are lax now, bent at the joints, but Sam makes no effort to move them. Sam is moaning incoherently, crying and trying to move his head. It's all Sam can do, and Dean feels himself begin to panic.
He doesn't know what else to do. He doesn't know how to help Sam.
Dean swears again and his hands hover over Sam's body, hoping to find some way to help.
Then Sam's eyes open and there is a flash of recognition and they're both crying again. It's been over two days. And now there is release, there is exhaustion, there is misery. And for a moment, it's just them and tears, together and broken.
OOO
Dean tries to stop crying, tries to get himself together. Sam needs to get out of here. But the fact is, Dean still doesn't know how.
Sam shakes with sobs--so badly that Dean worries for a moment he's having a seizure.
But Dean can see the utter relief in Sam's eyes, can feel it rolling of his brother in waves, and suddenly Dean is broken by his brother's completely brokenness.
His brother is strong. His brother prevails. His brother doesn't give up.
But Sam's sobs are wretched, filled with desperation and need.
The rage that comes over Dean is blinding and rapid, pulsing through him with the pounding of his heart. He wishes that he could find what did this, that he could break it just like it broke Sam.
But Dean doesn't know what it is, where it is, or if it's coming back. And it doesn't matter. Not now.
Now there is only Sam.
Suddenly, Dean wants to hug his brother, to hold him and ease away all the fears, put together the broken pieces, but he doesn't know how. There is no way to hold Sam with all the damage that had been inflicted.
It is the worst torture Dean has ever known.
OOO
The cell phone doesn't get reception in the mine. Dean curses.
Sam has fallen still again, mostly unconscious, though he still opens his eyes from time to time, as if to make sure Dean is really still there.
And Dean is, his hand still lingering on Sam's head, the other holding the cell, begging to catch a break.
He glances at his brother. There is nothing left to break.
He can't leave Sam. He won't. He's always taken care of his brother, and now is no different.
OOO
Sam's sobs were desperate before; they are agonized now.
It's enough to almost make Dean stop and go up to call without Sam. But Sam needs him. His brother needs him. He needs to not be alone.
Dean needs that too. Sam has been gone too much in his life, and Dean would take his brother's physical pain over the emotional trauma Sam is so clearly suffering from.
"Shh, Sam," he says softly. "I've just got to move your arms so we can get you out of here."
Sam seems to respond, makes some noises that certainly sound like it, but nothing comprehensible comes out of his brother's mouth and his eyes are only half open and glassy.
Dean hesitates as he reaches for Sam's arms. "This is going to hurt, kiddo," he warns, pleading for forgiveness.
Somehow Sam almost smiles, a drunken, relieved smile, and Dean's heart breaks, but he doesn't let himself stop.
His grip is firm but gentle, and his movements are fluid and careful. It's so simple--just pull Sam's arms down by his sides--but the instant he starts, Sam screams.
Screams and sobs, and Dean can hear the pain that colors Sam's voice so clearly that he nearly has to cover his ears from the sound.
He removes his own t-shirt to fasten Sam's arms to his torso, and by the time he's done, they're both spent.
Sam's voice has given out and he merely twitches and whimpers. Dean drops his head against his brother's and his tears fall onto Sam's face. "I'm so sorry, Sammy," he says again. "I'm so sorry."
OOO
The trip up is hard.
Sam is still surprisingly heavy and it's awkward, carrying all of Sam's weight, trying to be careful--so very careful--of Sam's damaged limbs.
Dean grunts and swears. His knees nearly give out under the strain and his arms ache, but he doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow. Just keeps his pace even and steady.
When they get outside, Dean is panting and Sam has fallen far too silent, though tears still leak from his eyes.
He sets Sam on the ground—so gently--and runs his hands through Sam's hair. He covers his brother with his jacket, trying to protect him. He has a brief thought about the thing that must have taken his brother, if it's coming back, that it has to pay, but he can't do anything but kneel by his brother's side and promise to make this better.
OOO
He's not quite sure how he explained where they were, but within 10 minutes, there are two medics traipsing through the forest toward him. One is a girl in her 20s, the other is a man in his 40s, and Dean almost falls in love with them both.
They see Sam, who is cradled in Dean's arms, and are moving directly to him. "What happened?" the older one asks.
Dean doesn't even know what to say. Dean doesn't even know what happened. There are no lies worth telling. "He was kidnapped," Dean says, letting his eyes linger on Sam's face. "It…it tortured him."
They are kneeling now, next to Dean, looking tentatively at him. "Who?"
"Whoever took him," Dean says.
The medics exchange a glance and Dean can feel them watching him. "You need to let us help him," the girl says, and her voice is soft and sweet, like a songbird.
Dean looks up at them and is surprised to find himself crying. "It tortured him," he says again. And the words sound worse, haunting him with failure.
They shush him, talk quietly to him, lulling him so carefully into a stupor that Dean doesn't resist when they pull Sam from his arms.
OOO
The paramedics are gentle with Sam, and Dean is grateful. Sam is semi-conscious, eyes blinking lazily, and Dean is sure to never leave Sam's field of vision, though he knows his brother isn't processing much. One of the medics probes Sam damaged joints, a look of concern and pity on her face. The other sets up an IV before retrieving the backboard to transport him.
Sam is shivering, and mumbles at their ministrations. Dean tries to whisper to him, but Sam moans on. The two medics count softly between each other, and in unison roll Sam on his side. Sam's moaning doesn't change its pitch, not even as their gloved hands maneuver the board beneath him and roll him back.
"How is he?" Dean asks, still hovering.
They carefully adjust the straps, securing Sam into place. "He's dehydrated," the man says. "It's hard to say on the amount of damage to his muscles, though."
Without a word, Dean moves to carry the stretcher, being careful as they tread over the forest floor back toward the road and the ambulance.
OOO
He doesn't even ask if he can ride along. He just climbs in beside the other medic and takes his place at Sam's side. The girl moves to the driver's seat, while the other sets to hooking up more monitors and checking Sam's vitals.
Sam's safe. He found his little brother.
But when he looks in Sam's half open eyes, Sam looks more lost than he's ever seen.
OOO
Dean's been in more stressful waiting rooms before. There was the time when Sam was 12 and got cut up by a poltergeist throwing a hissy fit. Sam had lost a lot of blood, slipped into hypovolemic shock before the hospital staff could find the source of the bleeding.
And there had been the time when Sam was 15 and fell through the floor during a hunt. Sam hadn't been conscious that time, and the head wound and risk of spinal injuries had thoroughly unnerved them all.
Even the little things--broken arms, concussions, stitches--all meant that Dean knows waiting rooms well.
But Dean doesn't know a waiting room like this.
It isn't the light blue walls or the motel room artwork. It isn't even the generic wood chairs with paisley patterned cushions. And it certainly isn't the 70s style end tables, hosting a variety of last month's magazines.
Because in this waiting room, Dean isn't worried about Sam's health. Yes, the concern about Sam's joints put Dean on edge, more so when the doctor had predictable probable longstanding damage. But he has never waited so hard to see if Sam would be okay--truly okay, mentally, psychologically, emotionally--as he does this time.
They've been in tight spots before. But Sam has never been tortured. They've been beaten, tracked, and taunted. They've even lost more than they'd like to admit. But tortured? Dean's not even sure the demon has done this much to them.
The demon, of course, has done its share, but not like this. Not in a way that leaves them so broken so quickly. The demon leaves them with enough to fight back. To show it that it can't win. And while it's won some battles, they all know it hasn't won the war. Because at the end of the day, they're still looking it in the eyes.
But from those few coherent moments, Dean saw Sam defeated, broken, retreated. Dean isn't so proud that he begrudges his brothers fear and tears, but he's scared out of his mind as to how to make them better.
If Sam doesn't bounce back, if Sam can't overcome this--Dean doesn't know what he'll do.
And what scares Dean more is that he doesn't know if he could overcome it if he were Sam.
OOO
"He's stable," is the first thing the doctor says, and it's not as reassuring as Dean would like. "We're giving him fluids, which is helping bring up his blood pressure."
Dean just stares, his eyes tired and strained, and waits for more.
"We are quite concerned about the damage to his shoulders and knee. Given how long they've been out of joint and the way in which they were stretched, it will be difficult to repair them. The damage to his muscles is extensive, and he's likely suffered damage to his nerves as well. We will operate to help repair the damage, but you need to realize that Sam may never recover full use of his limbs. Even in areas where Sam's bones weren't dislocated, he has experienced severe strain to his muscles and nerve damage. Sam has a long road to recovery ahead of him, but we'll know more once we finish the operation."
The doctor's litany is harsh and difficult to swallow, and Dean grinds his teeth against. "Can I see him?"
"We're just waiting to get him transferred to surgery. You can wait with him until then," the doctor offers.
Dean nods, but all he hears is Sam may never recover and his own voice promising as long as I'm around, nothing bad is going to happen to you. He hopes one is a lie; he needs the other to still be true.
OOO
When they let him see Sam, Dean wants to be relieved. After two days without Sam, after finding him in that mine, after seeing his body so stretched…
He should be relieved. That Sam is back. He is safe.
And Sam doesn't look so bad. He's pale, but clean and clothed. There are a few IVs running from his hand and his limbs are secured to his body. The doctor tells him that Sam is sedated, that he was even alert after they really got the IV going.
But the image of his baby brother in a hospital only evokes pain and fear.
And failure.
OOO
He stays with Sam until the nurses are there, unlocking the wheels on Sam's gurney.
And as they prep him to move, checking tubes and monitors, it occurs to Dean just how long Sam is. Though his body is obscured by the bed sheet, Sam's body just keeps going and going.
Dean always hated that Sam was taller than him. But he's never hated it as much as he does now. That image of Sam, stretched and pulled as far as he can go, will forever haunt him as he looks up into his brother's eyes.
"We'll show you to the surgery waiting room," one of them tells him.
Dean just nods as his eyes trace his brother's body, up and down, up and down.
"Did the doctor tell you about the procedure?" she asks.
Dean just nods again.
She smiles. "We need to take him now," she says softly. "Don't worry. He'll be fine."
Dean wants to believe her, but all he can see is Sam prone and pulled and Dean doesn't know how anything can be fine again.
OOO
Dean waits. Dean waits for Sam.
Dean remembers. He remembers taking Sam to his first day of kindergarten, how Sam's little legs had tried so hard to keep up with him, and his little voice begging Dean to wait up, to wait for him.
Dean remembers picking Sam up from middle school, waiting with a scowl while Sam worked his way through crowds of kids.
Dean remembers tracking a werewolf in the woods and pausing, waiting for Sam to catch up, nursing his hurt leg.
Dean remembers Sam walking out the door at 18 and waiting four years for him to come back.
Dean has always waited for Sam.
And he always will.
OOO
"The surgery went well," the doctor says. "As well as can be expected, anyway. The damage to his shoulders was severe. The ligaments and tendons were a mess. We've done what we can, but even with extensive therapy, he may never regain full use. We'll test his motor response when he wakes up and then we'll have a better idea of the long term consequences. He may experience some numbness, loss of dexterity--it's hard to say."
Dean has been expecting that, but it still hits him like a ton of bricks.
"As I explained before, the rest of his muscles will recover. Even his knee will regain full use, though it'll be prone to being knocked out of joint, so he may want to be careful on it," the doctor explains. He pauses and takes in Dean's devastation. "Sam is a very lucky young man."
And Dean tunes the doctor out. There's nothing lucky about being kidnapped and tortured by some thing for no apparent reason. There's nothing lucky about losing your girlfriend and mother to some demon. There's nothing lucky about a kid who only wanted normal and could only have the hunt.
OOO
He still doesn't know what took Sam.
At the time, it had seemed pretty unimportant. His focus had been so much on Sam, that he hadn't concerned himself with the necessary details to exact revenge.
Part of him wonders if he should go back, look for clues, because he knows the trail will get cold.
OOO
They tell him to go home. That Sam is fine, that nothing will happen, that nothing will change, that Sam is still sedated.
Dean doesn't listen. He doesn't care. Because they don't get it.
Sure, they look at him with sympathy and all linger sadly by Sam's bed, pitying how much his body has been through. They know better than Dean does just how much Sam has to fight to make a full recovery.
But they don't get it at all.
OOO
Sam's in traction, and it doesn't occur to Dean until Sam is waking that maybe that's not such a good idea.
Sam shifts, his mind fluttering hazily between oblivion and the real world, and his eyelids open and close as he comes to.
Dean leans forward, positioning himself above Sam with a hopeful smile on his face. "Hey, little brother."
But Sam doesn't seem to hear him. His consciousness is still a vague thing and he seems to struggle toward awareness.
Except he can't move.
Dean almost feels Sam tense as his limbs refuse to cooperate and he moves a hand to Sam's head in an attempt to soothe him. "Easy, Sam," he says. "You're okay now."
But Sam is not okay. His eyes blink open, wide and terrified. He tries to speak, to say something, but his voice is raw and broken and it comes out in strained noises only.
"Sammy, calm down. You're in the hospital."
Dean thinks he's making progress when Sam locks eyes with his, but Sam's eyes are full of tears and his head shakes in denial as his entire body begins to tremble. Sam's breathing hitches and Dean suddenly considers calling the doctor.
Sam tries to pull, to move away, but the traction is unyielding, and Dean sees how Sam's terror increases.
"Sam, you're in the hospital," Dean tries to explain to the horror in Sam's face. "We're helping you get better."
But it's pretty clear that Sam can't hear him.
Dean doesn't know how to make Sam hear him. He never has, and now is no different.
OOO
He wants it to be over. He's so ready for it to be over. For as agonizing as the two days Sam was missing was, the days since bringing him back have been a whole new kind of hell.
They sedate Sam. Every time they let Sam come to, he panics. Dean glares at them and suggests that maybe traction isn't best for someone who's just spent two days being stretched so far they can't move.
They just glare back and suggest that maybe Sam would like to move again someday.
So Dean sulks at his brother's bedside, watching the even rise and fall of Sam's chest, and wondering how long until he really gets his baby brother back.
OOO
"I'm concerned about the psychological damage of this attack," the doctor says. "Have the police learned anything more about what happened?"
Dean clenches his jaw. He told the cops he got an anonymous phone call that led him to Sam's whereabouts. They searched the area, even find the rack in the cave, but couldn't come to any conclusions. It's been nearly two days since Sam was found, and they can't find evidence that anyone was down in the cave with Sam.
They tell Dean what he already knows. Sam was tortured. Chained to a table and pulled as far as a human can be pulled. They found urine and blood and vomit but it is all Sam's.
Dean shakes his head.
The doctor almost winces. "Sam is so agitated when he wakes--it would be harmful for him to be awake in his current mental state."
Dean knows he's right. He's seen it happen. He's watched as Sam thrashes and pulls and they all learn that traction isn't nearly as static as metal chains are.
"The repair to his muscles and tendons has to have time to heal. If he aggravates them now, it could be very detrimental."
Dean doesn't really know why the doctor is still talking. That's all they do here, is talk. They look at Sam, poke him, and then just talk and talk and talk.
"Are you listening to me?" the doctor asks, peering intently into Dean's face. "Do you understand?"
And Dean nearly laughs. Does he understand? He understands that Sam's muscles were nearly shredded, that his skin will forever sport stretch marks. He understands that Sam's mobility may never be the same. He understands that they can't find the thing that did this, that they can't explain why it happened or how to really fix anything. He understands that he has to let them drug his baby brother, subdue Sam a little more, but this time for his own good.
Dean forces an angry smile. "Yeah," he says. "I understand."
OOO
If he could, Dean would hold Sam's hand. Somehow he knows that that physical connection would help Sam settle as he came to and found himself immobile.
But neither of Sam's hands are able to be held. Dean settles for a hand to the forehead.
He keeps it there a lot, even when it doesn't seem like Sam will wake up, though he wouldn't admit to that. He's just desperate for Sam to wake up, really wake up, so they can figure this whole mess out and move on. Now it's his mission to keep Sam calm, to keep them from filling his IV with sedatives whenever he comes to.
So when Sam begins to stir, Dean is alert and at his post, hand splayed reassuringly over his brother's forehead.
For a second Sam seems to tense, and Dean begins to worry, but instead of thrashing, Sam merely blinks his eyes open, studying his surrounded in a suspended panic.
"Sammy?" Dean grins, his smile so wide it hurts.
Sam trembles for a beat and Dean holds his breath.
Then Sam looks at him, really looks at him, and his eyes fill with tears. "Dean?"
Sam's voice is a whisper, harsh and grating and beautiful.
This time Dean does laugh, a hearty, relieved chuckle. "Yeah, little brother," he says. "Welcome back."