Six

Lub-Dub. Lub-Dub. Lub-Dub.

It's all Sam can hear, his own racing pulse bounding in his ears. He feels a hard, uncomfortable surface beneath him and as his senses come back to him he slowly starts to realize that he is lying facedown on the ground. It doesn't feel as rough as concrete so he's probably somewhere indoors.

He groans, moving his shaky arms out from the awkward position underneath him and rolling onto his back. His eyes focus onto his surroundings and he immediately recognises the stained ceiling.

He gasps as everything comes rushing back to him. Abas, Lucifer, his brother and Cas missing, the dance, his legs, the wheelchair, the summoning, Ellen… everything. He raises his hands to his eyes. They're not cut anymore.

Right. He's in the real world now. Abas is gone and everything else… Jess, Jake, Ellen…

Sam grits his teeth to stop himself from thinking of it and tries to move his legs to get to his feet, but he finds he can't. His heart rate speeds up some more. He was supposed to be okay. He wasn't supposed to be paralyzed in the real world. Gritting his teeth against the onslaught of emotions, he cranes his neck, trying to spot Dean and Cas.

Sam seems to be on the far side of the room, near the bed closest to the door and from his view, he can only see a foot and part of jeans that look like Dean's, but he cannot spot Cas. He sits up, trying to catch a glance over the beds.

Shifting his body towards the bed nearest to him, he rests a hand on it, getting ready to pull himself up onto it when he hears what sounds like keys scratching at a lock. He looks towards the door of the motel room, defenseless.

He gulps, as he door swings open. He spots wheels, a sleeveless jacket, and a familiar face with a baseball cap on their head.

"Bobby," Sam breaths. He feels every ounce of adrenaline leave him while another part of him is taken back to the world they just escaped as his eyes fixate onto the wheelchair. "Man, it's good to see you."

"Likewise, son. Now where are the other two idjits?" he asks as he slams the door close behind him.

Sam motions towards the farther end of the room, "I can't see Cas from here, but I think I saw part of Dean's foot."

"Boy, can't you get to your feet?" the old man asks as he wheels himself towards the other end of the room.

Sam blinks rapidly, trying to stop it all from getting to him. He looks at his legs, rubbing his hand across his thigh, sighing when he can't feel anything. "I...can't," he says quietly, enough that Bobby can't hear.

He thinks Bobby is going to ask him something, but then they both hear Dean groan and Sam forgets about his legs, all attention towards his brother. "Dean, you okay?" he asks.

"I think so," he hears back. Relief floods through him again.

"You're fine, ya idjit. Don't you two ever do that to me again," Bobby reprimands as he wheels back towards Sam. Dean gets to his feet and walks off a little farther, and Sam assumes he's checking on Cas.

"Sorry, Bobby."

"Nah, I'm messing with you. Just got me worried, is all. That boy, okay, Dean?"

"I'm not a boy. I'm an angel of the Lord," Cas announces, making Sam chuckle.

Cas sways as he gets up and Dean helps him sit on the bed. He then looks at Sam, and Sam can practically hear him think as Dean scrutinizes him.

"Why are you still on the floor, Sam?"

Sam clenches his jaw, not replying. However, Dean immediately understands, just like Sam expected him to.

"But, that's not possible is it? We got out," Dean says, hurrying over and bending down to help Sam up onto the bed.

Sam sees Bobby watching curiously but ignores it. "I don't know, Dean. I still can't feel anything."

Dean looks at Cas. "Is this possible? Can you fix it?"

"I don't know, Dean. I don't have enough power left in me but I will try," Cas moves towards Sam's bed, settling next to him. He raises two fingers, placing them onto Sam's forehead and frowns a second later.

"What?" Sam asks. He still feels the same. He can't move his fucking legs.

"I can't find anything wrong with you physically. You aren't injured in any way."

"Then why the hell can't I move my damn legs, Cas? This was supposed to be fixed once we got out of there," Sam spouts.

"It could be a psychological thing however. I do sense psychological disturbance but I can't pinpoint it enough to heal it. The human psyche is very complicated and I could do more damage than good if I tried and I'd rather not take the risk," Castiel explains, calmly.

"What, so, psychosomatic is what you're saying?" Sam asks, somber.

"It's possible."

"Great, just great. Just fucking great," Sam groans. He looks at Bobby who is patiently sitting aside.

"It's a long story, but, in the other world, I got in an accident and was bound to a wheelchair the whole time," Sam explains, feeling like if there's anyone who could understand his frustration right now, it would be Bobby.

Bobby throws him an empathetic look. "Well, I can definitely say that I can relate, Sam. But if you say it's psychosomatic, it will very well heal soon. You just need to give it time."

Sam nods, figuring Bobby's right.

"Now, if you idjits are good, I'm gonna go get some shut eye. I've had enough worry and lack of sleep to last me a lifetime." He looks at Cas. "There's a spare bed in my room if you need somewhere to sleep."

"Angels don't sleep," Cas says.

"Well, if you need a break from these two here, you're welcome to come to my room. Just don't stare at me or else I'll be the last thing you see before I kill you myself," Bobby threatens as he opens the door of the room and wheels himself out.

Cas quietly follows and Sam recognizes the gesture as a means of giving them privacy and feels grateful. He nods a silent thanks towards Cas as he shuts the door behind him.

Dean pats Sam's legs in reassurance and walks to his own bed. "Am I the only one that feels that we could sleep for ten years straight?"

Sam grins. "Nah, I'm right there with you." He takes a deep breath, uneasy, and looks at his hands, which are now shaking. A familiar sense of dread washes over him while he looks at Dean, who is straightening out his bedcovers and fluffing his pillow.

"Um, Dean?"

Dean looks up, and the tired expression on his face changes to one of worry. "What's wrong?"

"I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. But… I didn't know. I didn't even know until she… she told me about it and… I…" he sighs, because he doesn't even think he can justify himself. He's made a god-awful mistake and he hates himself for it. He wishes he'd been smarter… wishes Cas had just told him, or that he'd known. Something. Anything.

Dean, however, obviously has no clue what Sam's saying, so his eyes are narrowed as he tries to understand. "Calm down, Sam," he says. "What are you talking about?"

Sam swallows, stomach churning. "I...drank demon blood. In that world. To get us out. I summoned a demon so I could find you, and she… I didn't even remember, Dean. She made me drink it. I think...I think I'm feeling the aftereffects now. Withdrawal, I mean," he explains, hesitating every few words.

Sam watches as Dean glares at him. He knows he's let him down. He'd promised himself and his brother that he would never touch demon blood again. Dean has every right to be pissed off at him right this moment.

He sighs, feeling guilty as Dean purses his lips, nods at Sam and gets into bed, facing away from him.

Sam decides he doesn't need to burden Dean with his detox again. He'll deal with it on his own, because this is his fault. He scoots lower onto his own bed, and lays down, facing Dean's back. He takes a deep breath trying to calm his nerves and shuts his eyes, hoping for a dreamless sleep.

~o~

Screaming. He can hear screaming. He needs to help them. Someone is in danger. But he can't see anything. Why can't he see anything? Everything is too dark. Too fucking dark, dammit.

Sam. Sammy.

Someone's calling his name. He needs to get to them, see what they need. It's what he does. Save people, hunt things. He needs to rescue them somehow.

"Sam!"

He doesn't understand. He knows that voice.

"Sammy!"

He feels someone shaking him. He knows this someone, doesn't he?

"Sammy, snap out of it!"

Dean. It's Dean. Is Dean in trouble?

He realizes he can't see because his eyes seem to be shut. He struggles, trying to get them to open.

Immediately, he sits up as his eyelids finally cooperate and it dawns on him that the screaming he hears is his own. His scream cuts off midway, his throat now feeling like it's on fire. His system is having a warring within itself setting alarms everywhere and he aches all over for it. He craves it. Needs it.

But no, he can't. It's disgusting, and Dean would be even madder at him. He'd hate him. He's already let him down, he can't do it again.

"Sammy, I don't hate you," he hears Dean say. That's a lie. A big fucking lie.

He hears a sigh. "It's not. Sammy, it was a nightmare. You wouldn't stop screaming, I had to wake you up."

Sam feels himself nod, almost on autopilot. He decides he's gonna lay back down. He vaguely registers that he seems to have regained feeling in his toes, but right now it doesn't seem to matter.

He needs to just sleep, and not be a nuisance to Dean again. He'll make sure he doesn't scream again.

He hears Dean sigh again, feels covers being put onto him, and part of him feels like he doesn't deserve the gesture. He probably deserves to shiver and freeze as he sleeps.

He hears the rustle of sheets as Dean lays back down on his own bed. This time, Sam's facing away from him.

He slowly drifts off towards oblivion, falling into a restless sleep.

~o~

Sam doesn't know how long he's been using the toilet bowl as a pillow, but the nausea still hasn't eased. He doesn't even know if he has anything left to puke up anymore.

The positive of this was that he seemed to have regained most of the feeling in his legs, even though they felt weak as hell and he still had to crawl on all fours to the bathroom when the nausea hit him.

But it was a welcome change from having to use his upper arms and butt to drag himself places.

Dean hasn't walked in yet so there's only two possibilities. One, Dean's in a deep sleep and hasn't heard Sam turning himself inside out, or two, he's heard Sam but doesn't care.

Like he didn't seem to before. Sam was always left alone in the panic room for his detoxing sessions. Just like this, but Dean was just more physically absent then. And while Sam appreciated everyone not witnessing his misery, he'd also felt a twinge of hurt that Dean hadn't been around to even check on how he was doing.

He understood why, he did, but if Dean had been in Sam's place, Sam would have done all he could to make it easier for his brother.

Sam sighs, shakily lifting his head from the edge of the toilet bowl. It just goes to show how much he's disappointed Dean.

He hears the jiggling of a doorknob on the other side and steels himself. The door opens and Dean is standing there, leaning on the door frame.

He clicks his tongue, staring at Sam with a sorry expression on his face. "Feeling like crap, are we?"

Sam bites down the retort he has in mind, not wanting to start a fight. He ignores his brother as a wave of nausea hits him again.

"Serves you right," Dean comments.

It feels like a stab wound through his gut, but Sam continues to ignore him.

"Really, Sam? The silent treatment? You know you were never good at that right?"

Sam gulps gingerly, rage coursing through him. Yeah, he made a mistake, yes, he's a fucking disappointment, but right now, he is doing nothing to bother Dean. He made it a point to deal with his own shit himself so he can't seem to understand why Dean would sacrifice his beauty sleep just to taunt Sam.

"If you're here to just goad and taunt me," Sam hisses, because, really, he's just feeling sick as hell and miserable right now, "leave me alone. I never asked you to get out of bed."

"Touchy, touchy. Someone's in a foul mood."

"What do you want, Dean?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to see your sad little face. You did this to yourself, you know. Let me down yet again, kiddo."

Sam clenches his fists. He doesn't need this right now. He doesn't need his brother telling him he's a failure yet again. He shuts his eyes. "Shut up."

"You can't do one damn thing right, can you? You promised me you wouldn't touch that stuff again, and yet here we are. You're pathetic, Sammy."

"SHUT UP!" Sam bellows. "Shut. Up. Shut up, shut up, shut up—" he's repeating it loudly, constantly, and he barely hears thumping footsteps and a snap. He blinks. Dean is gone.

What?

Someone bangs at the door, causing Sam to jump.

"Sam, open up. Sammy?"

Sam blinks. He'd forgotten he'd locked the door. The Dean he just saw wasn't real, right? That was just a hallucination?

He shakily crawls to the door, opening it, and situates himself back near the toilet seat as a wave of nausea hits him again and he heaves into the toilet, bringing up bile and emptiness and sorrow and his need for more and he feels like his stomach is going to escape his mouth anytime now. It hurts, pains him, shit, but he flinches when he feels a familiar hand rubbing comforting circles on his back. Dean.

No, he doesn't need this. He doesn't want Dean's sympathy…

He shakes Dean away because he doesn't need that, doesn't need it, and Dean, taking the message, slumps down, waiting for Sam to finish.

And when Sam does sit back a few seconds later, he's gasping for breath, tears running down his face that are partly from the physical pain and agony and partly from what he just experienced. He's trembling everywhere and his stomach is still roiling, his head spinning, and he's restless and tired and he's had enough. He pulls his knees to his chest.

"Sammy?" A hand comes to grip at his shoulder, but Sam shrugs him away.

"I'm sorry." He buries his face into his knees, shivers rocking his body. I let you down. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. Please don't hate me. Don't hate me…

"Sammy, why would I hate you?" Dean asks, sitting next to him and putting an arm around his shoulders. Sam realises he said it all out loud. He doesn't shake Dean away again, though, but he leans in a bit.

"I drank fucking demon blood, Dean."

"Yeah, I know," Dean retorts. "So?"

"So?!"

Dean holds him closer, lets Sam tuck his face into his shoulder. "Yeah, I know," he whispers. "It wasn't your fault."

Sam shakes his head. Again and again. Dean—he knew, even in that other world, that it was wrong. Even if he didn't know how and why. Drinking anyone's blood in any situation, in any universe is not right. There is no excuse…

"Sam," Dean says, "you were desperate. Me and Cas were gone. I get it."

Sam bites his lip, chokes down traitorous tears. "I'm sorry."

"For what exactly, dude. We just went over that one."

"I–I'm a mess and detoxing and you have to see it all, yet again. I've already done enough of that."

"And? You think I've never seen you sick before?"

"You were pissed," Sam whispers. He feels like a kid. He's tired of Dean being angry at him. He misses their harmony from the other world. Where they were still brothers and functioning. Where Dean cared. And right now…

Dean sighs. "Sam, I get it, okay? I just was caught off guard when you told me earlier. Yeah, I was pissed but when you were asleep I realized that it was a situation that you weren't gonna win. And I ain't gonna tell you off for that now."

Those are the best words Sam's heard in ages and he makes himself comfortable in Dean's embrace, cheek rested against familiar fabric. He takes a deep breath. "You mean that, right, Dean? You're not fucking around with me?"

"Scouts honor," Dean says raising his hand.

"You were never a boy scout," Sam teases him, heart lifting a little.

Dean snorts. "You're totally cuddling up to me, though."

Sam lifts his head, wrinkling his nose. "Ew."

"You didn't get puke on me, did you?" Dean asks him, glancing at the shoulder Sam had rested his face in.

"I didn't, you jerk, I'm not a kid."

"You're a little shit, though."

"Shut up," Sam says, tired and slurring, "or I swear I'll puke on you."

"You're gross."

"You're gross."

"Bobby's gonna come yell at us if we don't get to sleep," Dean says. "So you ready to move your ass to the bed?"

Sam swallows, feels his stomach churn some more, and shakes his head. "Wait?"

"All right, Sammy." Dean offers him his shoulder again and Sam leans in, curling his arms around his cramping stomach.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes while Sam's nausea quells. Dean helps Sam back to bed afterwards, and quietly keeps a trashcan near him and Sam is thankful. This is the Dean he missed. This is the Dean that's real.

As Dean falls asleep, Sam lies on his back in his bed, feeling for the first time that he's not at odds with his brother.

He feels like they can actually get through this shitstorm that he's created.

Dean believes him, and that's all that he cares about.

~o~

"Sam, what the hell is taking you so long?" Dean whines, standing at the doorway of yet another no-name motel room.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Get to the car, I'll be there in a minute."

They still haven't found a way to deal with Lucifer and it's now been a couple of weeks since they got back from what Dean likes to call the 'prissy ass world'. Sam still struggles with walking when he wakes up in the morning but as the day goes by, it's like he was never paralyzed at all, which in all honesty, is true.

Dean's found them a hunt, a demon problem at Blue Earth, Minnesota, and Sam is highly amused at Dean's enthusiasm to tackle with them.

He picks up his duffel bag and hears a muffled thud and looks down to see the amulet.

The one he'd picked up the minute Dean had thrown it into the trash.

"Shit," he curses under his breath. He looks towards the open door to make sure Dean isn't looking and picks up the necklace. He opens the duffel and zips it into a compartment concealed on the inside.

He sets the duffel onto the bed and walks into the bathroom to look himself through one last time. He's been thinking about it for months now but was never really alone to try it.

He sets his arms out in a right angle in front of him, his one foot in front and the other tilted slightly at the ankle and behind the first. He remembers the mechanics of it. He pushes off with the foot on the back, bringing it towards his knees, pointing his foot while he lifts the one on the ground into relevé while trying to get his arms to circle around.

His ankles twists and he wobbles on his one foot, crashes into the door of the bathroom and topples into the main room, sprawled on his back.

His eyes widen and he frantically looks towards the front door and heaves a sigh of relief to know that Dean didn't spot him.

He hastily gets to his feet, straightens out his clothes and picks up his duffel. He gives the room a once over and walks out, vowing to never tell Dean about this.

Ever.

END

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