The next morning the brothers headed out early to give themselves plenty of time. Sam had plotted out a route heading back east. It was a normal day on the road for the most part – lead foot and loud music, the occasional breaks for food. The only indication that there was anything potentially wrong with this day was the silence that seemed to creep in as time bore down. Dean became increasingly silent, not even singing along to his favorite tunes. Sam didn't try and draw him out, the anticipation wearing on him as well.
Evening descended and they were outside of Jackson, Tennessee. The area had enough motels that they could afford to be more picky than usual. Some charm and credit card fraud found them safely housed in the nicest suite the Travel Star Motel had available. Dean was surprised, because it was Sam who insisted on doing the charming to get the better lodging. Although he shouldn't have been that surprised, their dad had done the same thing, trying to make Dean as comfortable as possible. Dean didn't have the heart to tell either of them that it didn't really matter where he was when it happened, he'd take any dark room.
They went out to a dive bar for dinner, although Sam refused to let Dean have more than one drink on the chance it was going to get mixed with pain meds later. This left Sam to play the part of the drunk gambler, so they could score some cash hustling pool. As Dean and the Mel Gibson version of William Wallace said, "Do it and let the English see you do it." Because when your marks could see you polish off a few rounds it made the whole thing believable. They didn't need to drink enough to blot out consciousness, just make sure each drink they did imbibe was seen by all. Sam managed to score several hundred dollars off a group of co-eds before he noticed it was 9:30. He also managed to get a decent buzz going. Sam shot Dean a look from across the bar which Dean returned with a slight nod, knowing his cue.
Dean burst through a couple of crowds of people. "Greg, damnit! I've been combing the place for you….what drink are you on now?"
Sam made a show of counting slowly on his fingers before shrugging. "Room for one more."
"No way, man, you gotta stop. If Sherri kicks you out again, you are not sleeping on my couch. Sorry, everyone…this game is over!" Dean yelled over the din of the room.
The group that had been hanging around the pool table just stood there in amusement for a moment. A burly looking guy hanging out by the left corner pocket called out, "Greg, it's your turn. Go already."
Crowds never dispersed the first time you asked, so this hadn't been unexpected to Dean.
"Seriously, guys, fuck off! His girlfriend will kill him if I don't get him home." Dean flicked a couple of twenties onto the green felt of the table. "Here. Next drinks are on him."
Dean pulled Sam's arm over his shoulders, pulling his giant lummox of a brother with him as they staggered toward the exit away from their audience. Dean was kicking himself for using the angry girlfriend story when the last thing Sam needed was to be reminded that his girlfriend would never have the chance to get angry at him again, figuring that must be the reason for Sam's dark furtive glances. Way to kick a brother when he's down.
"We should've left fifteen minutes ago, Dean." Sam muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "We're cutting it way too close, man, I'm sorry."
"It's fine. Let's just finish this charade. Give 'em their money's worth." Dean, relieved that his brother's expression had nothing to do with being reminded of grief, placed his foot in front of Sam's next step as they walked so he'd stumble a little, stifling a laugh. "Look out, drunky."
They made their way to the Impala, Dean still playing at hoisting Sam along. Better to stick with a story and be free to hustle there again than be confronted by an angry mob bearing pool cues and get banned from a bar.
Finally back to the car, Sam held out his hand.
"What, lush?" asked Dean, unlocking the driver's side.
"Keys, man. We're not fishtailing across lanes of traffic again."
"So you want me – the guy who may or may not get a headbanger tonight, to hand the keys to you, the geek who spent the last few hours mainlining crappy microbrews. No way, Sam."
"Dean –"
"Dude, the sooner you stop arguing and get in the car, the sooner we'll be back at the motel."
Sam narrowed his eyes shrewdly for a moment before strolling over to the passenger side of the Chevy, waiting for Dean to lean over and unlock it so he could take his perch to watch his older brother for the tiniest flicker of pain throughout the seven minute jaunt back to where they were staying.
For a moment, Dean really had allowed himself to believe that the previous day had been a fluke. That hope came crashing down as they pulled into the motel parking lot, and some sonofabitch began weaving rusty piano wire into his temporal lobe, like pulsating earthworms in the spring soil. He blew out a shaky, exasperated sigh as he fumbled to turn off the ignition.
"Y'know, Sam, I was really hoping…" Dean didn't finish expressing what his hope was, the swiftly increasing pain making it nearly laughable that he had hoped it wouldn't come.
"Your meds are in your pocket?" Sam's face was set in a grim line.
"What? Yeah." Dean replied, but remained unmoving after he set his head against the coolness of wheel, his fingers gripping it tightly.
Sam waited for a few moments as his older brother sat hunched over, hearing his breath coming quicker. "Dean…?"
Dean kept his eyes closed, trying to keep his composure. "Just…gimme a minute, okay?"
Sam nodded slightly and exited in the car, closing it as softly as he was able, which wasn't that softly considering the weight of the door. Dean flicked his eyes up to see the tall silhouette of his brother disappear into the motel room. "This is pissing you off, already, huh – Sammy?" Dean muttered to himself. He figured he couldn't blame Sam, just like he couldn't blame his dad. Dad had a job to do, and the ultimate mission behind the job – to avenge his wife's death. Sam had the same job, the same mission, and even fresher grief to contend with. There just wasn't time for this.
Dean's jaw set resolutely as he pushed himself back against the seat, even the slight movement causing a flare of agony that made his entire being jackknife and his vocal chords respond with a guttural voicing of the pain. He was deeply grateful that Sam wasn't there to hear it and deeply determined to make his next move. If he could just convince Sam to get back in the car, they could start toward somewhere – a hunt, their dad. Maybe Sam would have to drive, but at least they'd still be making progress toward something. Dean had convinced Sam to do far less appealing things before.
How exactly Dean managed to get himself from the Impala to the motel door, he really had no idea. It happened, sure enough. The lights weren't on, but the room was aglow in a soft flickering light that didn't come from any of the fixtures. Sam looked up from where he was lighting one of the several candles he had strewn about the room.
"Candles, ….my, you are a romantic." Dean leaned himself against the door jamb.
"Hey, I was gonna come get you in a sec. Figured this kind of light might be easier on you."
Sam crossed the room in two long strides, pulling on the curtain cords to close the gap in the heavy drapes. What must have been another half a stride and Sam was by his older brother's side, gripping his arm firmly. It took Dean a few moments to realize he was being mostly held up, and he knew he was telling Sam he was sorry about all this, he felt his mouth form the words, but it was muffled over the repeated pulse of the throbbing.
Sam pursed his lips at his brother's apology. "Don't be stupid." Sam shifted his weight so he had a better hold on Dean, hooking one of his fingers around the belt loops of his jeans. "You take your meds out there?"
"No. Sam…Jesus! Motherfucker!" Dean was sure his head must have broken open, cracked like an egg. He could swear he felt fissures in his skull spiraling outward from his eye, like a windshield shattering. In an automatic move his hand smacked upward to grab his head, not even realizing he was clawing at his scalp with his fingernails.
"Fuck this." Sam muttered, reaching into Dean's pockets until he came up with the injector and medication cartridge. Sam stared down at the contraptions he held in one hand as he held up his brother with the other. "Huh, I need both hands….," Sam tried to shift Dean so that that door jamb would take most of the weight, but immediately saw that his brother's legs weren't going to hold up. "Er, this isn't gonna…..oh, wait."
Sam straddled his legs apart, stretched one long limb out, hooked his foot around one of the dinette chairs and pulled it forward for Dean to sit on, grinning like he just figured out how to end world hunger. Had Dean not been completely enveloped in pain, he would've gotten a huge kick out of the look on his brother's face. It was the same kind of expression Sam used to wear whenever he did something of merit. Nowadays it was reserved for executing spirits or developing the smoothest cover story, but in the way old days it was for things as simple as finishing a Happy Meal all by himself. Sam's moment of glee didn't last long, the situation sobering him as he gently guided Dean into the chair.
Dean wondered if Sam could feel the pain, the body throb, which is what their dad had called it when it got to this point, when Dean physically began rocking back and forth with the cadence of the stab-stab-stab. With both hands free, it didn't take Sam long to figure out the injector. He began the task of pulling one of Dean's arms – first out of his leather jacket, then out of the denim button-down he had over that. It was a bit of a trick to get Dean out of the layers –what with the rocking.
"Dean…can you try and stay still? I know it hurts, man, but I need to get at your arm."
Dean didn't respond. He thought if he allowed his vocal chords any leeway at all, he'd start screaming or sobbing, maybe both. And he tried to stop the rocking, but it was on automatic, like a tremor. Sam was somewhat used to Dean walling off when he was in distress. This was beyond anything he'd seen, though, and it was scaring the crap out of him – the very aura of inescapable pain that was pulsating off of his brother, pain that could not be hidden or shrugged off or patched up. He wanted to be able to end the agony for Dean, but he didn't want to manhandle him unless he had to, especially after reading how Clusters can cause any nerves to be hypersensitive. The question lingered, if he touched Dean, would it hurt him and make it worse? Sam felt completely out of his element. He had memory upon memory of Dean being infinitely patient with him when he was sick as a child. Even right up until Sam left for college, Dean always made sure he was well taken care of. He fondly remembered the time that Dean had called to check in with him while Dean and Dad were away on a hunt, and Dean – hearing a rasping cough and the fatigue in Sam's voice, but knowing he couldn't back out of the hunt, had contacted the mother of the girl he had a crush on. "She was a nurse, Sam!" Dean had shrugged when he had come back, "Nurses can't have hot daughters?" But they both knew that Dean was trying to make Sam feel better in more than one way. Sam honestly wasn't sure he had ever been that patient or considerate to Dean.
Eventually, Sam caught the rhythm of his older brother's ebb and flow and managed to go with it, pulling on the sleeves only when Dean would be pulling back in the opposite direction. A couple good tugs and the arm was free. "Got it!" Sam wasted no time in plunging the medication into his brother's muscle, staying crouched down in front of him, his other hand kneading Dean's neck gently, trying not to freak out at the rapid pulse bounding beneath his fingers. He opted to touch Dean, because to sit there and just watch….it was impossible.
Sam began speaking in low, reassuring tones. "Once I figured out which way you were rocking, it was easier. Sort of like Double Dutch." Okay, that last part was definitely for Dean's benefit – offering himself up to be dubbed permanently female for knowing anything more about a jump rope besides it being a cardio tool or an on-the-fly weapon. Perfect opportunity, and Dean couldn't even manage to quirk an eyebrow in disbelief.
They stayed in that position for a good fifteen minutes, the moonlight shining a few inches into the room, a cold wind blustering inside through the still open door. Sam searched Dean's form for any sign of relief, but there was no droop in the hunched shoulders, no ease in the shallow breaths.
"It should be working by now, shouldn't it? Injections are supposed to be fast." Sam's frown deepened.
Dean nodded his head nearly imperceptibly. If he hadn't been under full-on Sammy Scrutiny, perhaps it would have been missed.
"Yes, you feel it working or yes it should be?"
"'shd'be." Dean uttered his words around clenched teeth, practically perfect ventriloquism.
"He speaks." Sam said lightly. "So…it needs more time or another dose?"
Dean leaned fully forward over his knees, gripping dark blonde hair tightly with his fingers. His voice began to break. "If it hasn't started…it isn't gonna."
"It just chooses not to work? That's ridiculous!"
"So write a letter." Dean said wearily, not in the mood to argue.
"I'm not saying you're ridiculous, man. Just…you have people depending on this stuff. Seems dumb to give folks a med that is going to crap out whenever it feels like it."
"You're telling me." Dean choked out. He was immensely glad that his face had the cover of the autonomic tears, it was getting to the point he couldn't hold back the real ones anymore. It was obvious this was not going to be one of the shorter headbangers, and he didn't know if he could deal with that and keep his shit at all together for his brother.
"Hey, hey….Dean, hey!" Dean felt Sam's hands gently, but firmly remove his own hands from his head. He wanted to tell him, 'Sammy, don't you know those hands are the only things keeping my brains in?'
"You're nearly drawing blood, dude. Just gonna make it worse."
Beneath the tears, Sam could see the withering glare Dean gave him.
"Okay, it can't make it worse, but it won't help. Makes me really glad dad stayed on our ass about keeping short nails, though." Sam paused, realizing he just admitted his dad was right about something and not really liking it. He shook his head as if it would help him refocus on the situation in front of him. "Jesus, man. Where's the Dilaudid – same pocket?"
Dean didn't respond, just let Sam go digging through this pockets until he came up with the bottle. He felt Sam's presence leave and felt overwhelming relief – or that's what he thought he felt, not being able to hide the whimper that was caught in his throat. He didn't want to fall apart in front of his kid brother, and he knew he was going to. He felt four years old again, wanting his mommy, daddy, anyone to make it okay. He hands found their way up to his scalp again.
No, no, no you do not think about mom right now, you do NOT.
Too late. Just that one shred of emotion tipped the scales he was trying so hard to balance, and a deep sob, achingly bone-deep escaped from his throat. His soul had to find a way to express the physical torment he was enduring. Dean hated that tears were considered a viable outlet, not just because he felt like a gigantic wimp, but because crying like that did not help the pain. Not one fucking iota.
"Hey, man…I'm right here, right here, Dean." There Sam was, looming again, plastic cup of water in hand. Sam reached out, unsure how to comfort this level of torture. Tell him to set a bone, stitch a wound – he could do that, he remembered how. This was…this was clinging onto a life raft and praying for the storm to end. He laid a hand on his brother's trembling back.
"De-…" Sam's own voice became husky and he quickly clammed up. This was not right – to see Dean like this, not right on the most fundamental and basic level he'd ever known, the one dependable thing in his life crumbling right before his eyes.
Hearing Sam in distress got through to Dean somehow, and both brothers took deep breaths to steady themselves. Sam pulled Dean's hands away from his head again, and Dean felt Sam press two pills in his sweaty palm. He looked up to find the frantic face of his baby brother, holding a glass of water out like proffered hope in a cheap plastic vessel.
There was something nagging at Dean, something telling him not to take the pills, and it was more than the usual stoicism, more than the usual conservation of necessities too. Even though it was really the last thing he wanted to do, he found himself pulling away from Sam, trying to put the meds back into his brother's hand.
"Dude, no, this isn't even an option. You take them, now!" The resemblance of Sam's voice to their father's was uncanny. He could practically hear the follow-up, 'That's an order, son.' Dean wasn't all that surprised that he immediately obeyed, the water feeling so good as it chased down the medicine, like liquid calm.
"We should get you laying down." Sam said softly.
"I can't." Dean's voice quaked. It was all he could manage to say, not really able to go into the explanation of how he was past the point of being able to lay down. He needed to be able to move, to be able to pound things, to let his leg hammer up and down like it was doing now. Fortunately, Sam didn't try to argue.
"Okay, we'll wait until the meds kick in." Sam didn't prevent Dean's hands from find their way back up to clutch at his hair once more. He pulled up the other chair so he could sit with one hand on his brother's back, rubbing in the same rhythm Dean was rocking.
After another unbearable fifteen to twenty minutes, which might as well have been eternity, Sam was aware of Dean's breathing slowing down, the rocking easing too.
"Oh, thank god," he murmured. Dean agreed, and he felt his body sagging under the weight of relief and medication. He didn't fight as he felt his younger brother remove the other half of his jacket and shirt from him, didn't fight as he was hoisted up and laid down on the bed, didn't fight as he felt his boots being pulled off one by one. He curled himself into the fetal position, somewhere in between the torture of white-hot pain and the softness of the opiate clouds he was climbing onto.
Sam moved about the room in near silence, finally closing the open door, blowing out a couple of the candles. He settled himself against the headboard with Dean's back facing him, laying his hand on his brother's hip. He could have lain down on the other bed, but it seemed much too far away. He still heard the small whimper that caught on Dean's breath with every other exhalation. It took another half an hour before Dean's breathing eased out completely, the lines of pain completely gone, and he finally fell asleep.
It was over. How in the hell had Dean and his dad done this every single night for a month? All Sam had done was bear witness to two of these headaches (and fuck if that didn't seem like a weak word) and he found himself wrung out and exhausted. He wasn't sure when his eyes closed, when he fell asleep.