warning: colorful vocabulary and brotherly love.
A/N: so, I don't really have anything to say in my defense other than, I got a life. I'm still quite obsessive over Supernatural and still writing - if you believe it or not, I have at least 5 stories in the works - regularly, but never with enough time to completely finish a train of thought. unfortunately, my one track mind didn't seem to respond too well to that, and everytime I sat down a second time, I would have to erase half of what I wrote before hand to keep up with where I was going. I have a class that requires a minimum of two hours a night, translations every week, and essays out the wazoo, a new relationship, and a growing streak of slacking off. the odds were and are against me, but I shall prevail - eventually.
recap: the only possible way to remember what has recently happened in this story, or be in the proper mood for this chapter's tone, is to reread at least chapter four.
reviewers: you are all so amazing and steadfast despite my crazy absence that I can't really begin to say thanks. but I'll try. thanks for sticking through this story and riding out all the bumps and.. craters that signify months, for the compliments, critiques, and opinions, and especially for the motivation and warm felt comments I never knew I'd need quite so much
heather03nmg: thank you particularly. I would still be flip-flopping around if it weren't for your consitent pushing and motivation. thanks so much!
also: keep an eye out for new stories - new stories that will be complete before being uploaded and therefore on time. I hope you enjoy the final installment, and are prepared for a slight follow up story to incoorporate this one's loose ends. thanks again for reading!
Chapter Five:
Sam sagged under the dead weight of his now unconscious brother, nearly toppled back in surprise, but managed to grip him enough to position Dean's back to his front. Sam's hands fumbled for a pulse he was certain he'd find but suddenly too uncertain not to check and shook Dean's arms in hopes of waking him. He was vaguely aware of the sound of voices, of his father communicating roughly in return, and managed to comprehend the word 'ambulance' before the voices started to fade. His eyes traveled reluctantly to the form of his father leaning heavily against the doorframe and locked on his heavy gaze. Sam's mind unconsciously replaced John's frown of concern with the wry smile of the shapeshifter, wide and toothy and too demanding to ignore, and he had to look away to catch his breath and steel his nerves. He hoisted Dean a little higher in order to dig his nose in his brother's short hair and just maybe slow down his racing heart.
"Sammy?" Dad's husky voice rumbled through the silence of the room and startled Sam into jumping, scared of the ramifications of his father's too-soft tone, and scooting several inches farther away. But it was just his father, not the shapeshifter.
"It's gonna be okay." His voice was too calm, too placating, too understanding to be Dad's. Sam blinked furiously to keep the burning sensation he could feel in his eyes at bay but couldn't will his head to face his father. He knew the man standing in the doorway was John Winchester and not the motionless form of the shapeshifter lying dead a few feet away, but a part of him must have been in disagreement because his head simply would not obey his conscious demand. Dean had yet to move and that was only making things worse. Sam's fingers intertwined with Dean's limp ones as he pulled his brother's right hand across his evenly breathing chest in some form of a one-sided embrace. And goddamn his head, it still wouldn't turn to face his quite obviously distressed father. His own body refused to comply with the desperate pleas of his mind, and that was probably enough to scare anyone shitless, let alone someone who'd just watched his brother almost have his brains blown out by a guy who'd stolen his dad's face. He barked out a short, panicked laugh that nearly turned to a sob.
"Sam, I –" John's voice came up short when Sam shuddered unsubtly and hugged himself closer to Dean.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, sensing his father's hesitation and concern. "I can't, I can't," Sam searched for the words to describe the feeling of losing all control and sense of reality but failed to grasp the vocabulary. "I'm sorry," he repeated, turning his head a fraction of an inch in his father's direction, no where near facing him.
"It's okay, Sam," But Dad's voice was still too accepting and way too passionate, so all he could do was nod and not believe a word he said. He could believe Dean though because Dean was real and Dean was there; he could feel him, could smell the combination of leather and ammo and meticulously cleaned car upholstery. He couldn't hear what his dad was saying, barely picked up the sound of a siren over the ringing in his ears and the dread in his stomach. But Dean was there and Dean wasn't dead and Dad wasn't either, even if it felt like it. He knew for a fact that his dad was right there, he just needed to find a way to let the rest of him know that too.
He originally fought off the hands reaching for Dean, threatening to pry away the only proof he had left of a family, still slumped awkwardly in his lap and sprawled across debris and cheap carpet in his deep slumber of unconsciousness. But exhaustion was swift and all consuming as it carried him further away. His hands were detached, finger by finger, from the familiar material of his brother's jacket, and the scene around him muddled into an unfocused fog of irrelevance. He struggled against the sudden bought of grogginess he knew to be fainting, terrified of the growing number of possible things that could happen in the midst of his weakness, but lost track of his mission to stay alert somewhere between swaying uncertainly on his knees and connection with the floor. He saw the spotless, white tennis shoe of an unknown woman, and reality was lost to him in a sudden swarm of black.
---
Sam's stomach lurched as his center was abruptly thrown off balance from the force of a bump that sent the whole vehicle lurching almost as much as his now nauseated gut. He dug his nails into the cracked, leathery surface of what clanked like a rollaway bed and blinked furiously into the bright overhead light that couldn't have been more than three feet from his head as the outlines of two very strange men came drifting into view. He was moving but he wasn't walking and he wasn't standing, so the ceiling being that low made about as much sense as the idea of him somehow floating in place somewhere between up and down. Another bump, significantly smaller than the one to blame for his bitter wakening, forced a quiet yelp of surprise he hadn't been aware of to spill from his lips and proceeded to turn the remaining calmness in his stomach to a churning mass of sick. He blanched, a slight burn tingling into his cheeks, as the strangers turned to look down upon him, one curious, the other indifferently bland, both wearing hospital uniform. Another nearly unnoticeable bump barely touched the moving structure Sam sure as hell hoped was an ambulance and his stomach was done fooling around. He jackknifed into a seated position and doubled over, hand flying to his mouth in a desperate attempt to withhold his insides, and was rewarded with a plastic waste basket hastily forced into his hands. Weakly, he emptied the contents of his stomach with stinging tears on his face while a hard hand painfully squeezed his shoulder in what must have been an attempt at comfort, and struggled through the small bought of dry heaves that left him breathless and weary. Nothing made more sense than the soft pillow under his head, and before he could fully comprehend exactly what had happened, the lights had dimmed and he obligingly dimmed along with them.
---
"I think he's waking up," a soft, feminine voice found its way into Sam's blissfully empty head and tugged against his comprehension of the English language. His brow furrowed in confusion as the fact that he could hear a voice but failed to see anyone there to speak it entered his mind. "Sir, can you hear me?" He nodded uncertainly, wondering if hearing was somehow synonymous with seeing. "Can you open your eyes for me?" the voice responded and Sam felt himself relax a little more knowing that he simply had his eyes closed. At least he wasn't blind.
He blinked into the shocking light and quickly squeezed his eyes shut in response, shaking his head slowly to answer the question. A hand snaked its way to the crook of his left elbow and applied a fair amount of pressure while something shuffled to the right of his head and the smell of disinfectant reached his senses. He groaned, scrunching his nose in disgust. He was in a hospital.
Squinting into the too bright lighting, he attempted to focus on the white-clad nurse fumbling with something he couldn't quite see. Sam batted her hands away, too confused to understand why. "M'fine," he muttered, blinking clarity into the ocean-blue room and trying to sit up.
A rough hand applied pressure to his chest before he could make the attempt. Sam's eyes darted nervously to a twenty-something muscle guy standing close to his right. He grinned a little, keeping his hand against Sam's chest. "Hold up there, kid."
Sam swallowed in response before half-heartedly testing the weight that Muscle Guy held consistently before resigning himself to the stiff sheets of his bed. His eyes fluttered to the door several yards from where he lay to the bright, blue curtain separating his side of the room from the other and back to the soft, hazel eyes of the nurse. His heart beat brutally against his chest and his lips went dry as a sudden sense of irrational fear wriggled itself deep into his gut. "Where's Dean?" he asked a little less demandingly than he meant it to sound in his head.
"Dean?" The woman quirked her head briefly and began reaching deliberately for his face. "Who's Dean, Honey?"
Her finger grazed his skin, just below the beginning of cuts against his temple and Sam immediately flinched away. "My big brother," he supplied, warily watching her now withdrawn hand. "Where is he?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know about a brother. I could send someone to check in just a minute," she negotiated with a serene smile of assurance plastered to her face, "but first I need to help get you cleaned up, huh?"
"But I –"
"Uh," she cut him off, still smiling her big, white smile. "Can you tell me your name, Hon?" She cut him off a second time as he opened his mouth to respond, "Do you know where you are? What day it is?"
"Sam Winchester," he breathed, still looking around the room, keeping an eye on the curtain, "I think it's Tuesday." He blinked uncertainly in the nurse's direction. "Am I still in Monroe? Washington?"
Her smiled widened as she glanced to a chart resting a few inches from his knee. "Valley General Hospital," she supplied with a nod. "I don't think you have too much of a concussion, at least not too severe, but we'll have to keep an eye on it." Her eyes traveled to his left arm and snatched a cool hand under his wrist before he could pull it away. He winced at the slight touch and tried in vain to tug it gently from her grasp, unsure as to why his wrist would hurt in the first place. "Looks like a slight sprain," she said, dropping his hand. "We can get that taken care of in a jiffy," she added brightly, "but I'd like to take a look at your stomach if that's okay with you, Sam." She was tugging at the material of his t-shirt before he could object and a stabbing pain erupted in his abdomen before the shirt was even halfway up. He failed to bite back the cry and shoved frantically at her hands, desperate to rid himself of the sudden pain, but Muscle Guy's hands made quick work of grabbing his.
"Easy," he warned, keeping a steady grip on Sam's hands.
"Please," he mumbled, squirming away from her hands as best he could, "it hurts."
"I know, Sam," she agreed solemnly but kept her eyes on his stomach as she pulled his shirt a little higher, "but I have to check." She lightly touched his lower ribs before pressing slowly down.
Sam howled in response, ripping his hands from Muscle Guy's grip, and shoved her arms forcefully away. "Where's Dean?" he asked again, letting his eyes dart between the door and the curtain before wrapping an arm protectively around his middle and glaring with little intensity at the woman. Her smile faded a fraction. "I need to find Dean." He sat a little too quickly but managed to stay seated and tried to swing his legs off the side of the bed just as Muscle Guy's hands maneuvered him onto his back once more.
"Please –" The woman began coaching, hands reaching for his sides all over again.
Muscle Guy's grip tightened and Sam's nerves fluttered with adrenaline. He bucked against the hold, effectively throwing off the hands of the shocked male, and levered himself by an elbow. Dean wasn't there. His father's face loomed in his mind, two incomprehensible words ringing in his ears; He's dead. Sam felt himself losing his ability to breathe as the masculine guy reached hesitantly for his shoulders once more.
"You need to take a breath and –" Sam cut off his false tone of security with a foot to his chest, wincing apologetically at the soft 'oof' the guy exclaimed when he staggered to the edge of the curtain. He blinked furiously at the way the room spun and struggled to remain calm despite the unrelenting pounding of his heart.
"Please, calm down," the woman's arm was on his elbow again and his eyes barely connected with her hazel orbs before he wrenched his arm away. She stared hard, smile slipping further away as the other man scowled from his right and advanced once again. "We're only trying to help you."
"I don't need help!" he yelled back, barely aware of his voice rising in volume. "I want to see my brother!"
"We don't know about a brother!" the woman replied, throwing her hands out in distress. "But we'll find out right away if you'll just –"
He made another attempt to drag himself from the bed but was thrown back by a hard grip to his left shoulder and hand to his sternum that left him slightly winded and crashed the bed against the wall with the added weight.
"Please calm down!" she implored a second time.
"But –" He bucked against the weight, barely gaining movement, and kicked frantically at the man's knees, "I just want –" Sam fought against the readjusted grip on his shoulders to no avail as Muscle Guy suddenly shifted his weight and pulled himself onto the bed, slamming its rails into the wall a second time as he leaned over Sam's resistant form and rested a forearm across his shoulders to hold him down. "What are you doing?" He almost whimpered as his arms were pinned securely to his side. "Let go of me!" Sam arched against the weight, gasping at the pain in his ribs. "STOP!"
"Tony!" He could no longer see the woman, only the angry blue eyes of Muscle Guy as he pressured his elbow against his collarbone to hold him down. He howled, writhing more than ever at the pain as they continued to argue and words like 'sedation' and 'restraints' filtered in and out of range. He swallowed back another cry of fear or pain, too confused to think about what was happening, and managed to lift the older man by several inches in his panicked struggle. "DEAN!" He didn't remember screaming, but heard his own voice over the pounding in his ears. "Get –OFF!" He bucked again. "DEAN!"
---
"'You hear that?" Dean's head whipped to the open door in reflex to the faint but present sound of what he thought was screaming, rewarding him with a sharp pain in his side.
"Fuck," he ground out in response to a rather forceful stitch, glaring hard at the ancient excuse of a doctor in the middle of closing the gap between his skin. Even if the cut wasn't much of a threat, it was still wide enough and deep enough to require seven, unparallel, painful stitches.
"Maybe if you quit moving so much," he muttered back, "and actually let us give you something for the pain instead of –"
"I said no more pain killers," Dean reiterated with a grimace as the man began to tie off the excess. "Trust me. I got enough of those when I was out for the count. Besides, I'm fine."
The man merely replied with a frown, swiftly cutting away remaining material and pressing a fair amount of gauze firmly to the wound, eliciting a sharp intake of breath on Dean's part. "You were stabbed," the doctor let out in a methodic form of speech. "Twice," he added as he removed the gauze to place a clean square in its spot, quickly layering and taping it securely to the already purpling skin surrounding his handiwork. "You call that fine?"
"Once," Dean corrected impatiently, hurting too badly to care much for the old man, Hank, Hanksbrough, something or other, "I was stabbed once," Dean motioned to his shoulder, not in the mood to find out how exactly moving it would feel. "This," he winced in response to the doctor's unsympathetic treatment as he applied the final amount of bandaging, "was a graze."
"You're really out there, kid," the old man grumbled, drawing away with an even heavier frown than before.
"You have no idea," Dean nodded in all honesty.
"But," he continued, swiveling in his chair to locate a form of sorts. He began scribbling something against the counter. "I'm writing you a prescription for the pain. You will purchase these and you will take them, you hear?"
Dean just nodded, flashing an insincere grin as he accepted the slip with his left hand. "Aye, aye, Doc." The doctor gave Dean a once over, smacking his lips at a loss for what to say in response to the long since healed scars marring Dean's conditioned chest and unknowingly prompted the Winchester to pull himself to his feet. He grappled for his shirt, raising his lip in disgust to its torn and bloodied condition before slowly shrugging his way into it, wary of his shoulder and the pulse of pain it sent traveling down his spine.
"Kid," the doctor started again, standing to full height with an unprecedented amount of pity in his eyes. And God, did Dean really hate being called 'kid' right now.
He held up his hand to stop the beginning of whatever monologue the old guy was planning. "Doc, if you even think about giving me the speech, I swear to God, I'm gonna –" Dean paused, jerking his head to the door a second time. He shifted his eyes to the doctor's, keeping his head tilted toward the exit. "You heard it that time, right?"
The doctor gave an exasperated sigh before the screaming rose in volume with a clear message bounding against the hospital's depressing walls and echoing mercilessly through Dean's pounding skull. It was Dean's name. Worse, it was Sam's voice. Dean's heart skipped a beat, the light went momentarily gray, and he couldn't make his feet move as fast as he desperately needed them to. "Sammy?" He couldn't remember saying his brother's name aloud. All he knew was that Sam was screaming and Sam didn't scream; not like that.
The doctor moved to give some form of assistance, but Dean was already sucking down a breath and halfway through the door. "Mr. Winchester, if you could just –" Dean shrugged away from the touch, pulse beating far too loudly in his ears as he quickened his already jogging pace through the maze of halls in search of the origin of his brother's cry. And holy fuck, Sam had just screamed his name louder than he had since he was too young to know an empty grocery store isle didn't mean he was completely abandoned, which is exactly how hopelessly alone he happened to have sounded. But then, Dean really had left his little brother, his unquestionably traumatized little brother, alone. He left Sam on his own with a horde of strangers in a hospital he knew Sam would automatically hate with the same intensity he despised the very thought of the all too memorable buildings. He ached in more ways than one as a helpless desire gripped his insides in a tangle of painful knots.
"Get –OFF!"
Dean skidded to a halt, twisting his head in the direction of the obscured order and nearly sprinting for the far end of the hall. The hair on the back of his neck stood in response to the sheer panic lacing his brother's cracking voice.
"DEAN!"
He had the door open before he remembered reaching it, halfway to the bed before he could fully comprehend what exactly he was seeing. His mouth went dry as he stopped in his tracks, fingers twitching in anticipation. A guy around his age, and not just some gangly intern, but a big ass grizzly kind of guy, was half on top of a violently struggling Sam, needle in hand.
"Let him go," He couldn't hear himself over the ringing in his ears, but knew he was
shouting, knew why everything suddenly had a tinge of red to it. "NOW!"
Sam's eyes snapped to the edge of the curtain where Dean stood, pale and rigid with a hand pressed hard to his side above a neat, white bandage he could see peeking from beneath the edge of his unbuttoned shirt, and he couldn't help but sag with relief. "Dea –" He was cut off as the full weight of Tony fell abruptly against him, and all he could do was whimper through the forced rush of air that expelled from his lungs and blink through the eruption of black spots in his vision. He was vaguely aware of the slight lift in pressure and the not-so empty threats Dean was shouting before he even tugged the man away; which, Sam was quite certain, was the only plausible explanation for the sudden removal of Tony. More shouting and the addition of an authoritative feminine voice, maybe two others, managed to reach his ringing ears, and then everything was startlingly quiet.
A weight to his right slowly sank into the bedding and a soft, familiar touch eased itself across his cheek and through his hair. "'You okay, Sammy?"
He leaned into the palm that now rested against his cheek and nodded with a sigh. If Dean was there then everything really would be okay. He blinked back spots and looked warily in his brother's direction, noting the blood caking certain areas of his clothing in stains of carnage, and released a gasp before he could remember exactly what caused them. "Oh crap, Dean, you're –"
"Fine and totally taken care of," Dean interrupted with a small smile that did next to nothing to calm Sam's flustered nerves.
He bit back the need to cry by slowly pulling himself up. Dean assisted just enough to situate Sam's back against his front, allowing his brother to turn into the crook of his neck, nestled beneath his chin for comfort, and wrapped his arms around him in a protective embrace. He almost lost Sam, repeatedly, one too many times in a single night, and that simply wasn't going to happen ever again. "I'm sorry, Sam," he breathed out a sigh, shifting for a better hold on his brother, "I'm so sorry I wasn't here."
Sam nodded slowly, just wanting to calm down his racing heart and pretend everything was just some bizarre form of a nightmare. But it wasn't. He blinked sluggishly at the blue curtain and hugged his arms around Dean's. "I thought it was a dream from when he knocked me out," he whispered quietly with a nervous pitch to his voice. Dean tightened his hold on Sam's form and dug his own face into his hair. "I thought you might still be..." Sam drew in a breath, "But you weren't, you were there but," he paused to hold back the uncertainty in his body and the wavering of his voice but only managed to make things worse, "you couldn't have been because you weren't, you were –"
"Breathe," Dean instructed, running his hand up and down Sam's suddenly shaking arm, more worried than he'd ever allow his voice to reveal. "You aren't making much sense, kiddo."
Sam nodded a little and took a shaky breath. "I'm just –" he sighed half-contentedly and shrugged himself a bit lower to rest more heavily against Dean, praying his brother's usual self wouldn't wake up and make him move. "I'm just tired and want to go home," he smiled sadly and let his eyes drop sleepily, "where ever it is we're going when this is over."
"Sam," Dean started, frowning at his suddenly fragile sibling.
"I don't want to..." He whispered back, turning against Dean's side for more warmth and security, "I just wanna sleep right now, okay?"
Dean opened his mouth to protest but could feel the way Sam sank wholly against him and decided whatever it was Sam had to say he could say when he woke up. "Okay, Sammy," he complied, hating that Sam had to wake up alone in the first place, "I'll be here."
Sam sniffed and nodded again. "Thanks," he sighed more than whispered all the things he couldn't say and let himself sink into the comfort of his brother and the promise of at least a few minutes rest. And as he fell asleep to the methodic way Dean ran his hand through his hair, he felt safe for the first time in what seemed like a long time, and everything, if only for the moment, was just distant enough to have been nothing but a bad dream.
---
Dean was ticked. No, Dean was pissed. It had been an hour before Sam was fully checked out and diagnosed as 'lucky' with a cracked rib and a seriously bruised abdomen, a sprained wrist, black eye, twelve stitches, and a moderate concussion, and another three hours since they had been moved to the waiting room while their father had his shoulder fixed and a leg reset. Sam had a few questions about the two crazies and head nurse from earlier and snorted half-heartedly at Dean's Cujo quip before growing increasingly antsy and scooting significantly closer as the minutes ticked too slowly by. And if they couldn't leave within the next fifteen minutes, Dean was simply taking Sam with him.
He glared hard at an elderly woman whose worried stare in Sam's direction would have him flinching in irrational fear the second he took notice. And God, did Dean hate that. He shrugged his arm a little tighter around his brother's shoulders with a blunt scowl to the woman, prompting her to turn away with a quick glare of her own. Sam only nestled a little closer and breathed a sleepy sigh into his shoulder that had Dean itching to hurt anything and everything by how vulnerable Sam had somehow become. He had fallen asleep a half hour ago and Dean would be damned if Sam woke up thanks to some ancient being across the room when he could be catching some well deserved Z's and on his way to escaping whatever the hell was going through his head.
Adrenaline was long gone and shock was well on its way to fading out of existence, and that sucked a little too much to stand. Dean scrubbed a hand furiously at his eyes to hold back either sleep or tears of frustration, uncertain of whether he really wanted to know which. Sam almost died only a few hours ago. His little brother had almost fucking died, and Dean was almost too late, and Dad was almost too slow, and damn it, Sammy almost died. He exhaled slowly and tugged Sam a little closer to rest his own head against the top of his as if the contact alone would somehow mean everything was fine, even if it really wasn't. Sam was obviously terrified by the idea of seeing Dad and had yet to say a word on what exactly happened before they made it to the hotel, just kept an eye on strangers and stuck close to Dean.
And it drove Dean mad that he couldn't do a thing to fix it.
---
Dean rapped twice on the window with a quick glance to the cracked doorway several yards from the car. After several half-truths to a couple of cops, an awkwardly cramped cab ride, and understatedly short stop at the destroyed hotel, the Winchesters had managed to get at least a few miles away from the hell site but didn't really have a choice on leaving town. They had taken the Impala on Dean's insistence, but permanently leaving John's truck, even with the slight adjustments to its load Dean had been sure to make, was not in anyone's best interest. Instead they would lay low for a couple of days, wait until they could mostly drive safely, and get as fucking far out 'a dodge as they wanted. That was the plan and it would work if they could make it through the couple of days part in one piece.
He lost patience on the third tap and simply opened the door.
"Rise and shine, kiddo," Dean found himself whispering. "Come on, Sammy."
Sam mumbled something incoherent and shifted to face Dean's voice, shivering at the sudden draft of wind. Dean cast a quick glance to the cracked door of their motel, thankfully not red but chipping blue in its color, and back to Sam. He had helped Dad get inside against his wishes and figured he could take Sam inside before bothering with their bags. Besides, it was cold.
He crouched down to tug against Sam's shoulder in hopes of rotating him into a more pliable position when his eyes snapped open in reflex. Sam's fingers dug into his already raw wrist and Dean couldn't help but wince in response. "Sam, look," Dean bit out, careful to keep his arm in Sam's grip, "look at me. It's me okay? Look, you're okay."
Sam's eyes drifted to his and Dean let out a breath of relief when they faded from panicked to confused. He pulled his arm gently from his brother's fingers and settled both hands at the cuff of his neck. "We're at another motel okay?" Sam nodded mutely. "You can go back to sleep, just not inside my car." He pulled himself out of the passenger side and tugged on Sam's shoulder a second time. "That means go inside, Webster."
Sam rolled his eyes in response as he unfolded himself and slowly rose to his feet, wincing at the pain any form of movement seemed to cause. "Why didn't it hurt this much before now?" he grumbled, wrapping an arm around his middle.
"It's called adrenaline," Dean piped in, shutting the door behind Sam and ushering him forward with a slight push to his back, not expecting the knee-buckling response his brother's body involuntarily fell into. He wrapped an arm around his waist, careful of Sam's ribs, before he had a chance to reach the ground. "Which you evidentially lost all feel for," he added matter-of-factly. Sam nodded belatedly, blinking hard with his head down. Dean shifted to view his face. "You good?"
"'M tired, Dean," Sam mumbled, leaning against him for support.
"I know, Sammy," he agreed and began propelling them forward. "It's okay, man. You can rest as soon as we get through that door." When Sam just stumbled in reaction and shivered through another gust of wind, Dean tugged a little more and managed to get them to the door. Just as he stepped through, Sam went completely lax.
"Whoa," Dean let out, catching Sam a second time, "the floor does not equal bed, Sherlock."
"You said," Sam grinned sleepily, "soon as we get through the door."
"Consider it rephrased," Dean ground out, half carrying Sam to the bed farthest from the door, casting his barely conscious father a furtive glance. He let Sam sink, boneless, to his side with a ruffle to his hair and pulled his shoes off without a word, simultaneously pulling the comforter over his shoulders. "I'm gonna get our crap, okay?
Sam nodded into his pillow, eyes already closed, intent on sleeping for years.
Dean was sure to shut the door behind him on his way out, determined to keep the temperature above the freezing degrees of outside air, and made his way to the trunk of the car. He shouldered Sam's bag and hoisted his own overtop of it. His fingers lingered over the strap of his father's, willing his pulse to slow. Sam almost died. He pulled the bulky tote over the lip of the trunk and rested it at his feet to get a better grip. Sam almost died. Dean bent to lift the bag, slamming shut and locking the back as he turned to face their room. Sam almost fucking died. The world came too close to ending to pretend everything was alright all of the time, even if it hurt just as much or more to acknowledge its existence. He swallowed nervously and ran a hand over his eyes. It didn't end and it wouldn't end; he wouldn't let it. Dean released a breath he couldn't recall holding and opened the door.
His heart skipped a beat. "Sam?" His dad was out, medicated in his sleep, but Sam was sitting rigid, expression caught in a cross between shock and fear, with white knuckles gripping the headboard to keep him steady. Dean had dropped their bags, barely shut the door, and made it to Sam's eye level before he had time to consider another option. He hesitantly placed a hand on Sam's elbow when he refused to meet his frantic gaze, uncurled his fingers from the wood. "Hey."
His attention traveled slowly from Dean's shoulder where his father's image had been to Dean's eyes, softening their deadened gleam into heightened windows of emotion. He shuddered through a breath before simply closing his eyes. "I thought," Sam sputtered, "when I – when I woke up I just remembered Dad and the mirror, but it wasn't the same room and –"
"You have a concussion," Dean supplied, squeezing his arm. "You're bound to be a little fuzzy." Sam nodded uncertainly, accepting Dean's assistance to swing his legs back beneath the blanket. "Just get some sleep, okay?" But Sam's hand encircled his wrist before he could step away, tightening marginally when he shifted far enough to give Sam a view of their father. He stared hard at Dean, blinked to keep from looking to the far side of the room.
"I can't," he said with wide eyes. "My head won't let me."
Dean sat evenly on the bed, hip to Sam's side. "Sam –"
"Every time I see him, I see the shapeshifter," Sam admitted. "And I know it isn't. I know it, but my head, it doesn't seem to get it, and I can't make it stop. I just want it to stop. I don't even think about it being something else, not until I remember that I didn't before."
"You didn't what?" Dean asked, toeing off his boots.
"Didn't think about it, didn't know," he whispered, allowing his eyes to shift to John. "I didn't know at first. I didn't even consider it and I should have. I should have known."
"Consider what?" Dean's brow furrowed, "That Dad was a shapeshifter?"
Sam nodded, defeated, and that irked Dean almost as much as the stares they got in the hospital.
"Why the hell would you, though? If he just came in like usual, baddy toasted, job done, why would you?"
Sam's breath caught in his throat, eyes darting to their father and back to Dean, visibly filling even in the darkness. "He said that, he – and I didn't –" He clamped his mouth shut as if the action to hold everything in, swallowed.
"Hey," Dean put a hand to his upper arm, thumbed his shoulder, "you're okay, alright?"
"I just want it to stop," he said brokenly, and a little bit of Dean broke too.
"It'll be okay, Sam," Dean supplied, shifting himself and maneuvering a compliant Sam to pull his own legs under the heavy covering. Sam twisted to lean his forehead into Dean's shoulder but remained stiff, breathing as evenly as his catching throat would allow. "Whatever it is that happened, it'll –"
"He said you were dead, Dean," Sam barely managed to whisper. "He was Dad and he said you were dead and it was my fault because I distracted you and I always distract you." Dean stiffened before he could think of something to do. His own breath caught on a growing lump in his throat when a soft cry penetrated Sam's words. "And then he wasn't Dad and Dad was dead and it made too much sense because he wouldn't have been alive if Dad was still alive, and if you were still alive you wouldn't have let him come. And I didn't have time to find anything, he just kept coming and I couldn't go anywhere and it just didn't matter anymore because what else was I going to do? Who else was left? And –" He broke off with a stifled sob, "you were really dead..."
Dean pulled Sam to him, guiding his brother's head to rest against his chest, to feel the steady beat of his heart. Sam just dug closer, releasing another sob he couldn't hold in. "I'm right here, Sammy, and we're all okay," was all Dean could say. "We're okay."
"It was like I couldn't wake up," Sam muttered quietly. "And it was real. God, Dean, I can't – I couldn't, if you weren't –"
Dean ran his thumb against Sam's temple, shushed him with a shake of his head. "I'm right here, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. This isn't happening again. I won't let it." Sam nodded slowly, breathed shakily in, and Dean gave Sam's arm a shake with his shoulder, ignoring how much it hurt, "You did good, okay? You fought the bastard or the place wouldn't have been trashed."
Sam just nodded and tightened his own hold on Dean's shirt. He felt ridiculous, knew Dean had to be itching to shove him off, but couldn't help but burrow as close as possible. Fear continued to pound through his chest. "'M sorry," he whispered.
"'Got nothin' to be sorry for," he answered methodically, earnestly. "Get some sleep, okay? Nothing's gonna happen." Dean's fingers were running through Sam's hair again and he knew he could sink into the warmth, let himself sleep, if he could just forget the feeling, the weight of his father's words.
"I can't," he whimpered, fighting back more tears. Every time he let his eyes shut he saw Dean dead, forever absent, and his father's face contort with cruelty and rage.
"You can," Dean insisted against the top of his scalp, "you can."
Sam shook his head. He didn't care how childish he was being or how irrational he was approaching things; all Sam wanted was for the night to go away. He wanted to ask about their mom, about the fire, but couldn't bring himself to start a subject he knew Dean would never not be sensitive to. He wanted to pretend he didn't know what his dad had kept secret from him, and he wanted even more to pretend that this was a lie. He knew it was nearly morning, knew they would sleep through the day, and knew the shapeshifter was dead and gone, but he couldn't erase the images, the sounds, or the bone-deep feelings. All he could do was hold on hard enough and hope it kept him from blowing away.
"You're okay, Sam," Dean promised in more ways than one, reaching out and touching what Sam needed the most. "Nothing bad is gonna happen as long as I'm around, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm gonna be right here."
Sam relaxed in that assurance because he knew he didn't have to hold on anymore. John slept soundlessly in his drugged slumber, too quiet for his father, but hidden from view. Dean was there, holding him, keeping him steady above the surface as he sifted fingers through his hair and whispered promises into his ear. He didn't need to say as much and Dean didn't have to voice it all to get a point across. Dean's promises were different than other promises.
"I've got you, Sammy" he reminded Sam, "I've got you."
Because when it came to Sam, no matter the circumstance, Dean kept his promises.
"I know," he breathed, still feeling the ache, but knowing it would dim with time. Whether he remembered to hold on or not, Dean would always be there to lift him back up. Dean would keep him grounded, no matter what. "I know."
Though it took a while and hurt a while longer, Sam managed to fall asleep, free of the night's terrors and safe in Dean's promises and the simple relief in knowing his brother would still be there when he opened his eyes.
---
Q: did you happen to catch all that foreshadowing for AHBL and on? that's right; I'm pure evil.
endings: we know Sam knows about his mother in the real plot, but I thought it would be a little fun to play with the exact way he came to find out. he obviously needs to hear this from his own family, get the whole story, but will he have the guts to ask? and when? - finger waggles subliminal messages - all will one day soon be addressed.
thanks again: you all rock too hard to define with the english language! I hope you enjoyed the painstakingly slow ride!