Part Two
This is the meanwhile, the in-between,
the waiting that happens in the space between
one note and the next, the place where you confuse
his hands with the room,
the dog with the man,
the blood with the ripped-up sky.
Henry, he's saying. Who is it that's talking?
He wakes up again. Tries to figure out what he's missed between the moments of consciousness. Well… semi-consciousness. Even now, he's only half aware. Confused. Can't figure out what's going on. Whose hands are on him. Not Sam's. What room he's in. If it's the same one from before or not. The dog's growling again. Or is it a man's voice? Grumbling?
He keeps his eyes closed. Tries to just become more aware before trying something harder. Tries to hear more sounds. Finally finds Sam's voice. It gives him peace. He's safe. It gives him the strength to open his eyes. He's being moved. Hands all over him. Carrying him. He's just starting to feel it over the heat on his skin.
His head is on Sam's chest. There's blood in the sky. No… on his shirt. Sam's blue shirt. One of his favorites, he thinks briefly. He hears the gravely voice again. Can't place it though it's right at the edge of his mind. Wants to know. Make sure Sammy is okay. But his conscious and confused thoughts are mixing together. "Henry," is the name that comes out, "who is that talking?"
"It's Bobby, Dean." The reply is said so very quietly. "Bobby came to help."
Help? Sammy can't take care of him by himself? What's wrong? Could the blood on his shirt have anything to do with this? "Sammy?" He gets the right name this time. "You okay?" He shivers. It's cold. He's being set down. Doesn't know where.
"I'm fine, Dean," the quiet voice answers. That's how Dean knows he's not fine. There's something off. But Bobby's here to help now. He trusts Bobby to take care of his Sam.
"Okay," he sighs. He lets the exhaustion overtake him to escape the unsettling mix of the heat below his skin meeting the cold in the air.
I thought I heard the clink of ice to teeth.
I thought I heard the clink of teeth to glass.
The dog, his bowl, his sloppy grin,
the number of wounds, the exact sequence,
the words now lurching in his mouth and drifting,
the words now drifting away.
He hears things. Familiar sounds. Sounds of Bobby's. Telling of pouring a drink. Clinking of glass. But he's still out of it. He can tell. Mostly by the weird things he's seeing. The sight of a fictitious werewolf standing in front of him. An actual huge dog. The size of a hellhound, but more human details. It's grinning at him, drool dripping from its fangs as it stalks towards him.
He doesn't have time to blink before it leaps. He jumps in front of Sam, the creature tackling him to the ground. Its claws are already in his chest, raking down it. He cries out as he feels the warmth of blood spreading. Feels every wound in the exact sequence as the first time. From the real werewolf. The number is impossible to tell.
There's a gunshot. He feels another stab of pain above the others. In his shoulder. He cries out one more time. Then the creature is falling. Lands on him. He has trouble breathing. "Sam," he chokes out. "Little help?" The werewolf is the real one now. More human than dog. But he knows he's still dreaming. This already happened.
Then Sam is there next to him. The creature is practically flung off of him. "I'm here, Dean. I'm here." His hands go to his face. "How you doing?"
He lets his eyes close. "Hurts." He feels his mind start fading from the blood loss. "A lot."
Sam takes off his jacket, rolling it up and pressing it to his chest. When Dean lets out a choked wine, he winces. "Sorry Dean." The first of many apologies to come. "I know it hurts."
He opens his eyes a little, looking up into Sam's face. "S'okay Sam." His eyes lock onto his brother's. "It'll be okay." He grimaces as he's moved. Choked sounds grate through his throat at lurching intervals.
"It's okay, Dean. It'll be okay. I'll fix you up."
Sam is still talking as the blood loss finally takes him. The words drift away.
He puts his hands, he's putting his hands,
he puts his hands all over you to keep you in the room,
but here is the Angel of Cornflakes and Milk,
and here is the Angel of Open Wounds,
and here is the Angel of Wash You Clean,
the Angel of Taking It All Away.
He's aware yet again as someone is sitting him up, making him wince at the pain in his chest. Someone's sitting behind him. Sam, he recognizes as he's leaned back against a ridiculously muscled chest, supported against him, ridiculously long legs on either side. A ridiculous heat surrounds him and he opens his eyes, awareness flooding in as indignation surges through him. "Why am I in your lap?" his voice growls.
Sam chuckles softly behind him. The first good sound from his brother he's heard in… however long it's been since the face-off with the werewolf. He takes comfort in the warm sound. "Relax tough guy. You need to be sitting up to eat. Do you think you can eat something? Fever's gone down thanks to Bobby. You haven't eaten in days. Let me feed you?" The last part in his rambling is a soft question.
He lets his head rest back on his brother's shoulder. An interesting and possibly compromising position if anyone else was around. But no one is. And he has the sense to admit he wouldn't be able to sit up otherwise. "Breathe a word of this to anyone and I'll kill you."
"Says the guy who jumped in front of me and took the werewolf." His brother's voice is sharp. Unintentionally, he guesses by the way the body tenses behind him after.
"Sorry," he murmurs.
His brother doesn't answer. Only holds up a bowl. "Bobby only has cornflakes. He went out to get more food. I figured this was a start."
"Okay," he offers softly. And then he does something he never thought he'd let his little… well… younger brother do. He lets Sam feed him. A bowl of cornflakes cereal, complete with milk. He realizes he was starving.
"One bowl is enough, I think," Sam says softly when it's gone. "I don't know what I'm doing, really." His voice is hesitant.
"I'll be fine, Sam."
"C'mon. We need to change the bandages." Sam carefully gets out from behind him, leaning him down gently to rest against the armrest of the couch. "You okay?"
He can't believe how coherent he is right now. "Yeah."
Sam nods, unbuttoning the shirt he had put on Dean when transferring him to Bobby's. He gently gets it off his older brother's arms, dropping it on the floor before carefully removing the bandages.
Dean grimaces against the sting. But this is something he's felt before. Familiar. He watches as Sam's long, gentle fingers remove bandage after bandage, frowning at the criss-crossing lines on his chest. It looks bad.
Sam sees his frown. "It was pretty bad," he almost breathes. His puppy dog eyes look up at his brother. "I did what I could, Dean. It was…" his breath shudders, "it was a puzzle."
He puts his hand to Sam's arm. Locks eyes with him. "It's okay, Sammy."
Sam nods at him, blinking away the wetness from his eyes before returning to his work. Then looks up again. "I know this is a stretch… but… you need to get clean."
He turns to look at the wall. Doesn't answer for a while. He appreciates Sam's patience. He eventually answers, "I'm sure you've already done it." He doesn't look away from the wall.
"Well… you don't exactly stop bodily functions just because you've passed out."
He grits his teeth.
"Dean." Sam's voice is gentle. "You've taken care of me before. There's no difference. Besides, this time I can just get the top half of you. And maybe help you to the bathroom."
He lets his eyes close. Takes a deep breath. Nods once. He lets Sam slowly help him stand, gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest when he moves. He only lets out a single groan. Forces Sam to ignore it. He makes it to the bathroom, forcing his brother out. But as soon as he hears the toilet flush Sam's back, supporting him as he leads him out and back to the couch.
Sam leaves and comes back with a wet rag, giving his brother a questioning look. Puppy eyes and all. When he gets a nod, he smiles brightly, sitting on the edge of the couch and slowly moving the warm rag over his brother's face, neck, one arm, the second arm. Then he moves to his chest, carefully rubbing around the stitches. The whole while, Sam's touch is incredibly gentle.
He can't help but relax under his brother's administrations. He can always count on Sam to take it all away.
We have not been given all the words necessary.
We have not been given anything at all.
We've been driving all night.
We've been driving a long time.
We don't want to stop. We can't stop.
He thinks as Sam washes him. Even though they're close, he's not stupid to think they've ever had great communication. He and Sam have gotten into some nasty fights. Physical and not. And they've had some pretty good talks, he's actually proud to admit. But they've never had any of the words necessary to tell each other just how much they care about the other. Sure, they've touched on it. But never made sure the other knows. He's thinking maybe they should. After this close call, it sounds nice.
He doesn't have much. Hasn't been given much throughout his life. The only constants have been the Impala, Sam, and hunting. Not counting them, the world hasn't given him anything at all. Even though he doesn't ask for very much. Even Sam had most of what he wanted taken away. Now he's back to three things too. Dean, the Impala, and hunting. He wants to keep Sam with him. Wants him to know he cares.
He's become content with their lives to a point. From one state to another. They've been driving. All day. All night. All week, month, year. A long time. They just keep driving. He doesn't want to stop. He has Sam with him. Without hunting, he and Sam wouldn't be together. He also can't stop. It's all he knows. All he really feels that he can do. He can't let it go.
He's standing over you.
His hands are open or his hands are fists.
It's night. It's noon. He's driving.
It's happening all over again.
It isn't happening. It's love or it isn't. It isn't over.
You're in a car. You're in the weeds again. You're on a bumpy road
and there are criminals everywhere,
longing for danger.
He starts to fall asleep as his brother finishes. His eyes close as Sam stands. He lets his fatigue take him. Finds his thoughts continuing into his dreams. Sam always seems to be standing over him. The tall freak. Six foot four of little brother always seems to be the one looking down. And he always seems to be looking up.
Once before, when Sam was brainwashed by a ghost in a psychiatric ward, Sam had stood over him as he had lied on the ground looking up. Sam had his hands in fists, a gun in one, ready to shoot him. Good thing he gave him the empty gun. But so many other times, he had looked up to his younger brother's hand open and offered to him. To pull him to his feet. Help him up.
There have been so many times when they were equals. He remembers night drives. Midday drives. Sam driving. A privilege he only allows his brother. Trusting him with his baby. And it happens again and again. And then it wasn't happening. Once when he thought his brother was leaving him again. He wanted to tell his brother he loved him. But what brother ever says that? So he didn't. But it wasn't over. Sam came back. Saved him even.
And they had driven away together again. Hunting again. Many hunts. In the woods. The weeds, mud, and bugs. On the highways to the bumpy, dirt roads. After creatures and criminals when they stumble upon the occasional crazy human. They look for danger. They're crazy, but if they don't do it who will? There are very few hunters in the world.
Open the door and the light falls in.
Open your mouth and it falls right out again.
He's on top of you. He's next to you, right next to you in fact.
He has the softest skin wrapped entirely around him.
He wakes up again. Getting tired of the tiny glimpses of reality in between the overwhelming hours, or what seems like hours, of dreams and nightmares. He sees it's dark. His biological clock is so screwed up. He's in Bobby's spare bedroom. He closes his eyes, sighing when it drags back one of the dreams. With Sam in the bed. But then something makes a sound.
The door opens, a sliver of light glowing on the floor. It closes, and Sam walks over to the bed. "There room for me?" he asks when he sees he's awake.
He wants to say no. Because they're almost in their thirties. A little too old to want to share a bed with your brother. But really… he does want to. Just for tonight. Because maybe that way he won't have nightmares. Maybe he can use the excuse of being hurt to be weak for once. To need his little brother.
And really, with the hopeful look on Sam's face right now, maybe the little brother wants it too. To keep an eye on him. Make sure he's okay. And it's not like they haven't had to before. When the rooms with two twin beds were full. Sure they got suggestive looks, but they didn't have a choice. Or nights where wherever they were staying didn't have heat, they shared to keep each other warm.
He finds himself saying, "There's always room, Sammy."
The smile Sam lets loose gives its own sliver of light from the brightness of his teeth. Like the way the light fell in from the door. It's white though, from the moonlight shining through the window. In a second, he's climbing over him to the empty side of the bed so he doesn't have to move.
He's a little shocked when Sam's arm rests gently on his stomach, just under where the stitches start. But he doesn't say anything. Just closes his eyes with his brother laying right next to him. Even smiles when in a few minutes, soft snores sound in his ear. It isn't long before Sam scoots even closer, cuddling him. He rolls his eyes affectionately. Sam always has like physical comfort. Cuddled to the point of ridiculousness when they were little.
He lets his eyes fall closed again, feeling his brother's warm, soft skin against him. There's so much of him. He lets himself curl into the warm embrace, hoping the nightmares will stay away. Uses his giant of a teddy bear brother to keep the dreams at bay. Lets weakness move in, knowing Sam is there.
It isn't him.
It isn't you.
You're falling now.
You're swimming.
This is not harmless.
You are not breathing.
You're climbing out of the chlorinated pool again.
Is there an acceptable result?
Do we mean something when we talk?
Is it enough that we are shuddering from the sound?
There's a gasping sound. It isn't Sam. It's not him. Or is it? He's falling now. Again. But not through the bed or floor. Just falling. Now swimming. Struggling. Fighting against the current trying to pull him under. This is bad. Dangerous. He stops breathing. Can't breathe. Still struggling. Swimming. Fighting to get out. Chlorine burns his throat. Chokes him. Keeps him from breathing.
But then he makes it. Breathes again as he pulls himself out of the water. But there is no water. Just choking. The command to not breathe. And he wonders… is there ever going to be an end to this? An acceptable end where it'll all go away? Does it mean anything when we ask for an end? Do we ever get the result we want? Is it enough that we shudder at the sound of our own pleading?
That's what he does now. Asks. Pleads. To any and every god that could help him. He knows he's on the verge of death. And he has a good chance of doing so soon. But he doesn't want to die. To hurt Sam like that for the second time. To leave Sam again. Be alone. Without his little brother. Heaven or Hell, he doesn't care. It'll be the same thing if he has to leave without Sam again.
Left hand raising the fork to the mouth,
feeling the meat slide down your throat, thinking
My throat. Mine. Everything in this cone of light is mine.
The ashtray and the broken lamp,
the filthy orange curtains and his ruined shirt.
In a split second he remembers a scene. A day not long before he was dragged to Hell. A few weeks before maybe. In a motel room just outside Ohio. Eating his dinner-remarkably well with his left hand because his right was still hurting from the night's hunt-while Sam slept. His mind was in dark places while he was virtually by himself. Eyes moving around the room.
He had thought, mine. Everything here is mine. My body. My belongings. This motel room. Mine for the night. The paint peeling from the walls. The unused ashtray to the broken lamp. The horrible orange curtains. Sam's ruined shirt on the floor. He blinks at that thought, eyes moving to the other bed. He thought, Sam. Sam is mine. My brother. My partner in crime. My walking fact book. My six foot four giant.
He had frowned. In a few weeks he'd be Hell's. And his life… his Sam would be left up here. It wouldn't be his anymore. He'd abandon it. Because of a stupid deal. His eyes rested on Sam's sleeping form again. No. Not stupid deal. A desperate one. But now he's going to lose Sam anyway.
He left Sam a few weeks after that. Lost him to Ruby he found out when he came back. He will not make the same mistake twice. He will not leave his brother again.
I've been in your body, baby, and it was paradise.
I've been in your body and it was a carnival ride.
You're inside you.
He's inside you.
He's between the two of you.
You're the residue.
Gold bodies in a red red room.
In the next second he's reminded of Hell. Alistair is back. Standing over him again. Eyes as black as night. Taunting him. Reminding him of how for years, he had cut into him. Got deep inside him.
"You were hell's most wanted, Dean. And I was the one who got to cut into you. It was a paradise like you couldn't imagine."
"You're dead," he chokes out. Desperately hoping his mind works with him on this. "Sam killed you."
Alistair's eyes look back into his. "Does it look like I'm dead?"
One second he's himself. The next, Alistair is deep inside him. Right over his heart as if trying to cut it out. His blade, an extension of his arm, deep inside him. But for some reason, he can't move. Can't even make a sound now. As if paralyzed.
Alistair is still there. A barrier between him and Sam. Just like he was when he was in Hell. Always between them. Now he can't even call out to him like he did in Hell. He can't move. Can't make a sound. Stuck. Like he was hung in Hell. Like residue on the end of a fish hook. In the weird light they were all just bodies hanging in a red, red room. Trophies of hell.
You're here.
You aren't here.
You're the room.
You're in the room.
You aren't in the room.
Stay here for just a little longer.
Then it's like his brain loses all ability to function properly. He's in Hell. Then he's not. He's a room. No, focus Dean. He's in a room with Sam. Then not in the room. Darkness. Complete nothingness. He hears Henry's voice. Sam's voice. Together. Both of them telling him to stay here a little longer.
They want to stop but they can't stop.
They don't know what they're doing.
This is not harmless, the how to touch it,
we do not want the screen completely lifted from our eyes,
just lifted long enough to see the holes.
"Bobby, I can't."
"We can't stop, Sam. You're brother is dieing. You have to get the bullet out."
"Why can't-"
"I already told you. I don't have the hands for it, boy. But yours are practically surgeon hands. You'll cause him less discomfort. Won't destroy the wound so much. It can't take much more. Especially with how close the bullet is to his heart."
Sam looks to Bobby, panic and desperation evident in his eyes. "I don't know what I'm doing, Bobby."
His father figure softens at his voice. So much fear in it. "Sam, you've helped Dean more times than anyone. You can do this. Save your brother."
"What happened to your doctor friend?"
Bobby chuckles humorlessly. "Got found out. In jail."
Sam deflates.
"Sam, your brother needs you. Now more than ever. You can do this."
Sam looks to Dean. More settled than before, but still breathing hard. He had been so close to losing him. The bullet has moved. Most likely from all of the moving around he had Dean do yesterday. Sam frowns. This is his fault. He has to fix it. "Knife." His voice sounds like it's coming out through a cheese grater.
Bobby hands over the small blade, sharpened to a surgical thin edge. "Just do it quick Sam. Once you cut him open, you gotta do it quick."
Sam feels bile rise up in his throat. He's about to cut open his brother's shoulder. The infected, unhealed wound. He pushes his need to throw up away, putting a gentle hand to is brother's chest, holding him still. He feels his brother's heart start moving slower. The tranquilizer is starting to work. Hopefully the numbing medicine is too.
He bites his bottom lip to the point of drawing blood as he carefully slides the blade over the bullet wound. This is against his every instinct. Being the one to cut his brother open. But he feels a slight twinge of thankfulness when the blade makes a perfectly clean cut. It moves almost too easily through the skin. He swallows thickly.
This isn't harmless. Not like stitching up is. Not like he's always done. He has to shut himself down. Leaving just enough of a window in his mind open to know what he's doing. Looking at it objectively. Like a screen to the part of his mind that screams at him for hurting his brother. Just enough of an opening to see the bullet wound.
Tired and sore and rubbed the wrong way,
rubbed raw and throbbing in the light.
They want to stop but they can't stop.
They cannot get the bullet out.
Cut me open and the light streams out.
Stitch me up and the light keeps streaming out
Between the stitches.
Sam's tired. Been tired. Hasn't slept for more than five hours total in the past three days. Was just letting himself relax an hour ago when Dean stopped breathing. Jolted him out of any hope that they could just leave the bullet in. Tore away any other option than getting the offending object out and hoping the infection will go away.
He's digging now. Eyes focused though tired. Hands moving steadily and objectively. Trying to ignore the fact that this is his brother. Thinking of it as the game Operation, getting the bullet out without pushing it into his heart or deeper into his shoulder where they'd have no choice but to take him to the hospital.
His head throbs with a headache, wishing he didn't need the light overhead to see. He wants to stop. Wants to stop digging in his brother. But he can't. And still, he can't get the bullet out. There's no giving up now though. They've already cut him open. The blood is steadily coming out. They need to finish. To stitch him up. At least that way the bleeding would be less between the stitches.
He cannot get the bullet out, he thinks, he can't, and then he does.
A little piece of grit to build a pearl around.
Midnight June. Midnight July.
They've been going at it for days now,
getting the bullet out.
Digging out the bullet and holding it up to the light, the light.
Digging out the bullet and holding it up to the light.
In a split second, he gets a hold of it. Heart leaping in triumph. He gently pulls, maneuvering it out of his brother's shoulder. After three days. That midnight in June to tonight in July. His face splits into a radiant smile as he finally holds it up to the light.