FACING YOUR DEMONS
Chapter 3
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It all made perfect sense, and Sam could have kicked himself for not seeing it sooner.
Dean had been in control almost his entire life; it had fallen on Dean's shoulders to make sure that both of them, but Sam in particular, was fed and clothed and most of all, safe. From the tender age of four, Dean had spent his every waking moment being responsible for the brothers' destiny.
When they hunted, Dean was behind a gun with his own finger on the trigger. When they travelled, Dean was behind the Impala's wheel with his foot on the gas.
Sam realised that if that if you took away that control, you took away what was essentially Dean. Dean needed that control the way other people need oxygen.
Trust wasn't something Dean gave freely; with the life they had led, why should he? Sam could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of people who Dean really trusted. So, for Dean to submit to giving that trust to a stranger, especially when he was in so much pain and so vulnerable, was an ordeal for him that Sam couldn't even begin to imagine.
All he could do was support Dean; give him understanding, not pity.
He patted Dean's clammy shoulder; "we've got to get this dealt with, you know that don't you?"
Dean didn't agree, but then he didn't recoil either, and Sam knew there and then that he had Dean's tacit agreement.
"I'm guessing you've got an infection, and if you don't get it treated, you could get really sick; hell, man you could end up in hospital, and I'm damned if I'll let that happen."
"Big woman," Dean grunted into his chest without meeting his brother's eyes, and Sam grinned broadly.
"I'm gonna get you some pain meds," Sam explained, grunting with effort as he rose to his feet; "they'll help you sleep while I check out our options."
Turning quietly, he left the room, returning only a moment later with a glass of water and three little blue capsules nestling in his palm.
He watched Dean clumsily drain half the glass to chase down the pills, giving a pained grimace as he wiped a collection of stray droplets which trickled down his chin.
Sam took back the glass and placed it on the nightstand.
"Try to get some sleep dude," he coaxed quietly; "I'll work something out so we can get you fixed up." He gestured up and down to the weary, forlorn figure who sat before him, hunched on the bed, miserably nursing his swollen face. "You don't want your memory foam to remember you like this!"
He watched as Dean slumped back onto his bed with a sigh, closing his eyes as he reached clumsily for the comforter, pulling it up over himself.
Sam smiled, and lingered for a moment before stepping out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
xxxxx
Somehow, the combination of medication and the sharing of his problem seemed to have helped Dean, and when Sam quietly tapped on the door to his room and crept inside, Dean was fast asleep, burrowed deep down under his beige comforter, little more than a great, inert snuffling lump topped by a shock of spiky bedhair.
Dean appeared to sense that someone was in the room with him, and he gradually stirred, shrugging off the comforter and blearily blinking up at Sam through the room's bright light. It became patently clear that he regretted waking up when his face instantly crumpled into a pained grimace.
With immense effort, he hauled himself upright into something resembling a sitting position, all the while curling a hand gingerly around his jaw to cradle his swollen face.
"Whadya wan'?" he mumbled thickly through the heavy fog of sleep and analgesics.
"I found a dentist," Sam began cautiously; "over in Jefferson City."
He waited to see if any response, either positive or negative was forthcoming.
It wasn't.
Grasping the initiative, Sam continued, making sure to keep a cheerful, optimistic tone in his voice; "he's very experienced; specialises in treating nervous patients."
He paused briefly to see if there was any spark of understanding or response coming from Dean's direction; he got a dazed blink and guessed that was the best he was going to get.
"And the best thing is, this guy can treat you under sedation so you'll know nothing about it," he continued, wrapping up with what he sincerely hoped was a reassuring smile.
Dean rubbed his eyes and tried to yawn but quickly gave up on the idea, settling instead for a timid stretch. "I, uh, I feel bit better after that sleep," he mumbled, scratching the unkempt thatch that decorated his head; "maybe …"
His voice trailed away as number one bitchface, the deluxe version, sprouted across Sam's face, darkening his expression.
"Dean," he stated levelly, "firstly, you can to lie to every other living soul on the planet, but you can't lie to me."
He watched as Dean visibly shrunk before him.
"Secondly, you still look like a chipmunk chewing a golf ball, so let's cut the wishful thinking and get on the road, huh? We've got almost two hundred miles to cover and I've booked you an appointment for 4 pm this afternoon."
xxxxx
Sam was pleasantly surprised and, at the same time, worried sick by the meek compliance with which Dean allowed himself to be dosed up with more Advil, and herded into the Impala.
By the time she pulled up into the parking lot of the Jefferson Dental Clinic, Dean had long since succumbed to the effects of sleepless nights together with the heavy analgesia assaulting his system and was slumped in the passenger seat, snoring softly.
Sam tried not to notice the thread of drool hanging off Dean's slack chin, gradually forming a broadening damp patch across the collar and chest of his T shirt.
And, Sam reflected, this was before the sedative!
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tbc